


Key to the Jungle

by hypnoidvoid



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Jungle, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Beep Beep Richie, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, M/M, Minor Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Reddie, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Slow Burn, rating will eventually be explicit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-04-23 23:18:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 47,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14343051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypnoidvoid/pseuds/hypnoidvoid
Summary: Ecologist!Richie and Nature Photographer!Eddie. Eccentric Dr. Richard Tozier has graduated with his Ph.D in Ecology and was given grant money to conduct his own research in the Amazon basin. He gets a research team, one of them being the very talented nature photographer Eddie Kaspbrak of National Geographic. They could not have predicted the beauty and chaos of the adventures that will ensue.[Jungle Reddie AU]





	1. The Nerd Trinity

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Reddie fic that I’ve ever written, so I hope you enjoy! You guys are in for a good time with this story, and it's been an absolute pleasure to write so far.

[Friday, February 23, 2018]

The sun was searing bright in the dead center of the sky, as 1:00 PM was signalled by the aggressive pings going off on Richie’s watch. He hurriedly wrestled with papers, and their accompanied color coordinated post-it notes threatening to fly off, as he jostled them into his shoulder bag that he threw over his head and trotted down the hall from his office to meet with Stan about this upcoming Tuesday. And he knew that if he was even a few minutes late, Stan was going to grumble and roll his eyes into the next dimension. The good ol’ Stanley Uris eye roll, ladies and gentlemen. There was something special about Stan’s signature eye rolls: they were comically dramatic and looked borderline painful, but left you feeling disappointed in yourself even if you did _abso-fucking-lutely_ nothing wrong. Well Richie had quite the reputation of being late, even as a part time professor, and he was making a solid effort to improve his habits.

He rounded the corners of the university’s biology department halls with little to no grace and excitedly threw open Stan’s office door with a loud ***THUD*** knocking off a poster that had been pinned to the back of the door. He was a mess of frizzy black curls, sporting a toothy grin extending from ear to ear in the archway of Stan’s office. Spatters of freckles painted his pale complexion on just about every patch of his body along with numerous tattoos (some large, some minimalistic), he wore thick horn rimmed glasses of severe prescription, and was overall a whimsical fashion anomaly.

Richie had been waiting for this Tuesday to come for approximately a year now and couldn’t contain his unbearable excitement from any person.

_Not no way. Not no how._

He was beaming. After finishing his Ph.D in ecology in record time at the early age of twenty-four, he was given the opportunity at the university to not only teach part time for extra cash, but was also given a significant amount of grant funding to conduct his own research in the Amazon basin for a few months where he’d be able to bring along a team for his trip. His own team?!

_My own Justice League of nerds….yowza._

The university was confident that Richie would be producing highly acclaimed work in the future and wanted to provide him the services to do so (and to get their title slapped on his published reports in big, bold, obnoxious lettering). The University of California, Los Angeles was one of the top universities in the entire United States. Man was he a prestigious son of a gun, but he never really took it to heart about how much he naturally excelled. He just always did. It was a normality.

The lanky man was loud, lacked a filter, but carried a magnetism with him that was crafted through wit and overwhelming charm. And over everything….. he was fucking _**brilliant**_. Nearing genius. Dr. Richard Tozier could do differential equations in his sleep, but couldn’t coordinate an outfit that matched if his life depended on it. He was a wildlife ecologist who focused primarily on conservation, taking a keen interest in tropical habitats. There was so much dangerous shit in the jungle. Spiders the size of your fingernail that could make you bleed from every pore?

_Cool._

Twelve foot snakes that were known to eat small children if they were hungry enough?

_Fucking awesome._

Hell, even pissing in the water could send a fish swimming up your dick. Richie was enthralled with the uniqueness of everything in the jungle, because frankly, it seemed like the jungle just didn’t play by any of the rules that the rest of the world abided by. And he admired that.

Stan finished his Ph.D in ornithology about a year after Richie had, despite being the same age. He loved everything about birds, and like Richie, wants to focus on their conservation. Stan thought that birds were God’s gift to the world, and needed to be protected by all means. He began bird watching at a very early age, making careful note of the ones that he observed, and keeping color coded lists of ones he wanted to one day see.

“Stan my Right Hand Man! What a lovely day to see my favorite bird man. The sun is SHININ’, cancer is CURED, racism is ERADICATED, the planets have ALIGNED. Today, my good chap, is a fantastic afternoon," Richie promptly plopped himself onto the edge of Stan’s desk buzzing with contagious enthusiasm, meanwhile completely ignoring Stan’s pristine organization of his desk.

“Get off my desk Richard, for the last time this place is not the ‘jungle gym of dumbass,” Stan retorted, but with little malice in his voice. A slight smirk even tugged on the corner of his lips. “You’re on time though, so I’ll let you keep your limbs. Now let’s get to business. Did you bring the grant pap-”

“Duh,” Richie cut him off with.

“Okay how about the permission sli-”

“Mhmmmmmmmm.”

“You’ve gotten all your vaccinations, corre-”

“YES. Yes, and yes to the next two questions I know are about to tumble out of yo’ damn mouth. So instead, let’s go fi-”

Richie tried to diverge, but was in turn cut off by an equally diligent Stanley, “How did you know what I was going to say, dipshit? So please let me finish, my goodness-”

Richie sharply interrupted once more.

“Yes, I’ve prepared the laptops with all the data analysis software, and yes I am in touch with Mike about our dock time. He’s even contacted the others and all is set, what did I tell you Staniel?”

With narrowed eyes, Stan slouched in defeat, “Really? _Staniel?_ You are exhausting. I really don’t know how I’ve put up with your incredulous idiocrities for this freaking long. I must be sick in the head."

Stan was stubborn and hated to be proven wrong, but had a massive soft spot for Richie in his heart (Stan himself may have called it a sore spot), and knew he could never hate the fucktard. Or even slightly dislike him, despite his annoyances. Richie and Stan had been best friends since childhood where they grew up in the quaint town of Derry, Maine. The air in Derry was stifling, the people cold, and the aura of in its entirety was unwelcoming and intolerable. They were each others only comfort and true friends for years, bonding inseparably over their love for science, the environment, and the creatures that inhabit it. And needless to say, they spent a large chunk of their young lives finding creative ways to escape bullies. Richie could be crass, and disgusting, and blatantly rude but Stan ultimately loved him deeply and considered him family. It was a friendship that most would not encounter in a lifetime, and he was grateful for this friend that he could share his life with.

Both were accepted to UCLA the same year, moved to Los Angeles as a team, and were roommates for their entire bout in college only just recently being able to afford to get their own places (a few blocks being the gaping distance from each other).

 _Looks like acquiring a doctorate would after all pay off in more ways than one,_ Stan thought mindlessly _._

“Ahhhhhhh you love me, I know ya do Stanny boy! Now, let’s go snatch Bev and grab some grub, my stomach is beginning to digest itself."

And with that, Richie slung a long, gangling arm around Stan’s shoulders, and they departed to retrieve Beverly from the lab, both with jovial smiles on their faces.

* * *

KNOCK… KNOCKNOCK…… **KNOCKNOCKNOCKNOCKNOCKNOCKNOCK**

From behind the thick, iron door of the lab Beverly could be quaintly heard shouting “One minute please, I’m getting the samples out of the centrifuges!”

“Bev dearest open the door love, I can’t be waiting all day for this lame centrifuge excuse of booty calling my fine ass, Stanley knows about our insatiable coworker lust!” Richie sang. Stan groaned and soothingly pinched the bridge of his nose with slight embarrassment, so that his ash blonde curls were forced to shade part of his face.

The door opened in a slow motion, revealing a lively Beverly with raised eyebrows, and a mischievous smirk; her hands boldly rested on both of her hips. Richie loved the way her smile was endearingly crooked, and left front tooth faintly chipped. The perfect people after all, had the most unique imperfections.

“Richie I swear to God I would have gotten you kicked out of this place years ago for sexual harassment if I didn’t find you so entertaining."

“M’lady you wound me! Now come give papa a hug ya beautiful, wench."

Richie held out both of his arms expectantly and Beverly flung herself into his, as a small child would do to their father after he came home from a long day’s work. They both let out familiar chuckles, and swam in the endearment that they had for one another in that brief moment. Her fiery ginger hair cascaded softly down her back in waves down to her hips as she let herself be immersed in Richie’s bearhug. Richie then placed both his palms on Bev’s shoulders and held her at an arm’s length, staring her straight in the eyes with a mock sternness. The extreme height difference between the two of them would have made this tableau as seen from a stranger very intimidating with Richie standing 6’3”, and Beverly Marsh an average five foot and six inches.

“Now, Miss Marsh. I trust that as my most talented, and may I say favored, field assistant you have prepared my lab materials to endure a long flight as well as waterproofing for the rainforest. The Amazon is unforgiving, and so am I. Do we have an understanding, little dove?”

Beverly lightly shoved Richie’s arms off of her shoulders and snapped into a marine’s saluting position, lowering her voice to crack a “Sir, yes sir!”.

As much as Stan found Richie and Beverly’s relationship dysfunctional, he could feel the loving platonic electricity between them and couldn’t help but smile at their banter. They were a refreshing drink of rambunctious tonic water.

Beverly Marsh was in the midst of completing her Master’s degree at UCLA for environmental sciences, and while Richie never had the pleasure of being her professor, he was gifted her assistance for field work and immediately favored her. The other field assistants could go to hell, they all had barbed spikes up their asses and couldn’t handle Richie’s demeanor. Not to mention she was smarter than the others. Maybe not academically (Einstein failed math, Bill Gates dropped out of Harvard yada yada yada), but she had a wit that strongly matched his own and that in itself exemplified enough intelligence. Bev was also wildly freckled, with beautiful red hair that resembled her illustrious personality for adventure. She was an uncontrollable flame; one that could birth innovative creation, and in the blink of an eye cause deadly destruction. Richie hoped he would never have to see that side of Beverly.

* * *

 Stan, Beverly, and Richie trolloped towards a small trendy café about a half a block down from the biology department corridors, off of campus to satisfy their growing hunger. Richie ignited the end of a menthol cigarette and puffed on it ferociously to try and curve his appetite, before ashing it on the bottom of his sneaker and tossing it in a proximal trash bin. Just because he littered his lungs didn’t entail him being a litter bug, he was a conservationist _remember?_

All on the edge of their nerves, at a similar state of 'hangry', they waltzed into their favorite local eatery named Cafe Synapse***. An appropriate place for a group of biologists to eat at. Stan ordered a black, medium roast coffee complemented with a club sandwich (minus the turkey, due to obvious reasons); Beverly kindly requested french onion soup and side salad along with hibiscus lemonade; Richie ordered a chocolate chip frappuccino and a croissant. The last thing Richie ever needed was more sugar to indulge his ADHD habits, but not even God Almighty himself could stop the Trashmouth from consuming an unhealthy quantity daily.

Stan delicately placed a folded napkin onto his lap, to protect his neatly ironed slacks. He bled order; the tucked in, baby blue button up shirt, the combed curls that could easily become unruly, the freshly polished dress shoes. His cheekbones were even as sharp as his tongue. Everything Stan wore, and did, was thoroughly considered and executed with an impeccable grace.

Except, when Stan drank. He could toss back whiskey like nobody’s business and was even roudier than Richie at times. He was the perfect alcohol parallel of a pure Christian girl getting freaky in the sheets behind closed doors as their opposite public persona. And it was priceless to witness, if you were so lucky.

Richie placed both of his hands behind his neck and reclined in his wooden chair to a dangerous incline, “Jesús Crísto Stan, you look like you’re covering up a hard on with that origami napkin on your lap.”

“Fuck you, beep beep Richie,” Stan countered with a light-hearted giggle.

Beverly sat forward in her chair and flirtatiously twiddled her finger around a curl framing her face, “Dr. Richie please stop staring at Dr. Stan’s lap like the pervert you are, now that’s just rude”. Richie furrowed his eyebrows, and steadied his chair back on to solid ground. “Just because I float my boat both ways sweetheart doesn’t mean Stan is my type m’kay? Plus Stan denied me access to those pretty li-”

“Oh my god Richie fucking sto-” he intervened.

Richie threw up his hands in a submissive gesture, “Okay okay princess, no more smut I promise.”

“So please do inform Bev and I about your talk with Hanlon. What’s our living situation like? And who are the others joining us on our research trip?” he continued with sincere curiosity.

“Well, Mike said that we’d be living in our own netted huts on the nature preserve. Running water will be provided in certain locations Stan, so don’t worry. I know how much powdering your face at night means to you. And from what I know, Mike will be our host and also act as a guide since he owns and lives on the research station. A fellow named Ben Hanscom will be our medic. A Bill Den-whatever will be our botanist, also there to gain inspiration for his ulterior fictional narratives that he writes for his online blog. I heard he wrote a horror ficlet about a possessed venus fly trap….”, Richie trailed off into a fit of sniggering fidgety squirms imagining a large carnivorous plant taken over by supernatural powers wreaking havoc in Tokyo. That would be an honorable death, Richie thought.

_Death by occult man-eating angiosperm. At least it’s not a boring trip to the grave._

“….and I’m not finished yet folks,” Richie motions for a drum roll, and Bev and Stan joyfully play along, using their hands to pat the table. “We even get our very own nature photographer to document our tomfoolery. Edward Kaspbrak, born and raised in New York City. Oh man, he sounds like a mama’s boy, even more than you Staniel."

Stan followed this remark with presenting Richie with the bird from both hands. Stan never called this action “flipping someone off”. It was giving someone “the bird” or the “double bird”, because god damnit he was an ornithologist with a Ph.D and he deserved this unalienable right to give someone the bird whenever he wanted to. Even rude children.

Little did they know that their future research teammate, Eddie Kaspbrak, had been packed for weeks now and heavily anticipated his Amazonian adventure that would ensue for the next few months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **** Cafe Synapse is a real place around UCLA in Los Angeles, and I thought this was a perfect addition to this fic.
> 
> I hope you guys loved the introduction, I have SO much more planned, and I am quaking to share the rest with everyone. You will also meet one of my favorite versions of Eddie very soon….


	2. Au Revoir Cityscapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the chapter notes for visual aids. For some chapters I will be providing links for pictures that I used as references, I hope they help!

[Monday, February 26, 2018]

_If I looked all over the world,_

_And there’s every type of girl_

_But your empty eyes, seem to pass me by_

_Leave me dancin’ with myself!_

_So let’s sink another drink_

_‘Cause it’ll give me time to think_

_If I had the chance I’d ask the world to dance_

_And I’ll be dancin’ with myself!_

_OH OH dancin’ with myself!_

_OH OH dancin’ with myself!_

 

Billy Idol’s “Dancing with Myself” could be heard blasting at a deafening volume from the 14th story of Eddie Kaspbrak’s apartment flat, with an even louder Eddie straining his voice to sing along. The twenty-two year old was frolicking, strutting, and gyrating with fervor around his entire creative space. With a whisk in hand as a microphone, purple glitter boa constricting his neck and black heart-shaped sunglasses sitting on the edge of his nose, Eddie was indeed dancing with himself and indulging in every single second of it. His oversized baseball jersey swayed with him with every motion, completing his bold fashion statement. Highly acclaimed and respected nature photographer Edward Kaspbrak, that could capture awe-inspiring emotion through his photography, was a giggling mess of euphoria at the moment.

And he was a  _drunken_ , hot mess; a vibrant hurricane of soft masculine energy that sent shockwaves through his walls, reverberating towards the city beyond. He leaped to place himself dead center of his trifold mirror,

“WheLLLLL Eddee Eddee, aren’t yew lookin’ finE tooday…” he trailed off, while esteeming in his reflection. He did a 360° spin and gave himself a playful  ***SMACK***  on his ass, followed by an open-mouthed wink.

Eddie had jubilantly slammed 8 mimosas by 9:36 AM on a Monday. He had the day off from work, and it was the last day he would be spending in New York City for a few months. Bags were packed, all his necessary paperwork was completed, logistics and timings for flights were solidified, so Eddie had a rare day of freedom from the usual weighted obligations. The preceding night he inquired at his work desk (which was smothered in vintage polaroid photos), composing a list of some of his favorite things he wanted to do on his day off. In order of importance, he wrote his agenda:

_1) Mimosa(s) and French toast for breakfast_

_2) Reading a romance novel in Central Park_

_3) Go to a baseball game_

_4) Work on Silver_

_5) Stargaze from balcony_

* * *

Eddie Kaspbrak grew up in New York City, being constantly surrounded by the ubiquitous metal structures that surpassed the sky itself. The love he had for this city penetrated deep into who grew into as a person, with the mayhem of the city entwining itself into Eddie’s own being. He loved to be out late at night swimming in the crowds of people at unique bars, riding his motorcycle across the city bridge, and searching for moments worth immortalizing through photography.

As a teen he would participate in the local baseball league (and well into highschool), hiding it from his mother the entire time. He was even quite talented at the sport. How he wished he could have shared this part of his life with his mother, but he decided to hide many aspects of his life to avoid the scrutiny of Sonia Kaspbrak.

 _Eddie Bear, you’re so fragile! A boy like you does not belong in sports! Please, I don’t want you to to get injured, that would break my heart_ , she would wail. She would cry out even if it was as simple as attempting to learn to ride a bike. Nothing particularly life threatening.

See, Eddie once had an overwhelmingly overbearing mother, who treated him more as a crystal vase than like a child; a crystal vase that had a hundred different allergies, sensitivities, and predisposed conditions. The facets of his vase were seemingly faltered, and needing consecutive medical attention through her perspective. The only ailment she had been slightly correct about was his mild asthma, resulting in him keeping an inhaler glued to his side in case of emergency in his camera bag, or fanny pack. And no grown man has  **ever**  made a fanny pack look more chik and trending than Eddie Kaspbrak. He rarely used the inhaler, only utilizing it for comfort when an anxiety attack peaked. But he took a liking to the aesthetic and convenience that his fanny pack gave him, and settled on keeping it as his signature accessory.

Eddie had no shame and he needn’t have any, because there was none to have. The majority admired his bold attitude, his outward confidence. And he was confident. But the selectively exuberant man had his vulnerabilities, and few would be able to break through that barrier of stubbornness. Not his close friends, not even his mother.  

Sonia kept him on a psychological leash for years, until he was able to consciously acknowledge that there were serious dysfunctions present with the way he was raised. Her gaze had been searing, and unrelentless with insane concern entangled with harsh criticism. Despite Sonia’s flaws Eddie loved his mother, and remained kind to her through her tyrannical dictatorship of his childhood. There was no father figure in his family, and he appreciated the love he was able to receive (even if it was oppressive love).

When she passed, it was an excruciating evening for Eddie. This was a woman that had sacrificed her mental sanity and personal identity to keep him out of harm’s way, even if harm’s way was a blade of grass.

However, when his mother’s presence left this earth, he felt a burdening weight lift off of his shoulders. The sudden realization ignited that he was able to do  _whatever_  he wanted, without guilt.

Fucking  _whatever_ , he wanted.

He could go bungee jumping. He could go on that road trip to Miami he always wanted to. He could verbalize how much of a snack another man looked in his basketball shorts jogging past his apartment complex without receiving a cold sneer. Fuck, he could walk down the block to buy a street-vendered hot dog without guff. Even with moving outside of his mother’s non-humble abode quickly after entering college, he was contacted incessantly by Sonia. She was exhausting. She left you fragile and wanting to crawl into a hole just thinking about her.

But  _this_.This was a new sensation.

There was no one to order him around. No one to ‘suade him into doing what they wanted out of culpability. He was an individual with a lasso that could wield it around the world and make anything his bitch.

It may have been due to growing up in a concrete jungle and having “the grass is greener on the other side” syndrome, but his favorite settings to capture were those devoid of human contact: mountain ranges, open fields, flowing streams, any place that wreaked of natural genuity and untouched innocence. And he loved being able to memorialize beauty without getting his hands filthy. He would cautiously navigate scenery to snap his pictures, then flee to an open space where he could sanitize his hands and feel comfortable enough to revel in the moment. His mother may have passed, but the wounds she left in Eddie’s faux hypochondriac mind remained.

When his supervisors at the National Geographic headquarters in New York offered him the position on a research team heading to the Amazon basin one month ago, Eddie obliged quicker than a strike of lightning:

“Eddie, how do you feel about taking a three month trip to the rainforest in Ecuador?” his manager nonchalantly asked. There was a moment of silence, with a wild-eyed Eddie staring in reverie.

“….what?"

“You’re a very talented young artist, and we would love for you to document an upcoming research trip that is embarking in late February, conducted by uhhhhh….. Hmmm let me see. Ah, yes! Dr. Richard Tozier. Our magazine is taking a particular interest in this so if you feel inclin-”

“YES,” he abruptly stated, then coughed into his fist sharply to regain a professional character. He rolled his shoulders back to obtain his highest stature that a 5’7” man could, eyeing his boss.

“Yes, I’m in. Sir, you have no idea how much this means to me,” but Eddie was failing wildly at keeping his composure from the excitement that arose in his chest.

_Richard Tozier? Sounds like an old, homophobic goober._

A grin widened on the older man’s face, and he placed a gentle hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “That pleases me to hear Mr. Kaspbrak. I expect quality content when you return. I will make arrangements for your trip tonight, and send details to your email when I have them”. He began to walk away, but slyly turned towards Eddie without making eye contact. “…..they’re lucky to have you, Eddie”. As the man walked in the opposite direction towards his own office, he glanced over his shoulder once more to witness Eddie doing a 'happy dance'. And he smiled to himself.

Over all the sceneries that he’s dreamt of witnessing, Eddie desired to see the purity of the night sky undisturbed with city lights in it’s vast entirety. Basking in light of the stars from thousands of miles away seemed ethereal, and for him in this seemingly small existence, thus seemed surreal. Humankind had interfered amongst planes where they simply did not belong, he knew it. The opportunity to escape to a truly wild ecosystem that had been honored with the freedom to be undisciplined only heightened his wonder.

The night sky held untold mysteries of persistence, of death, rebirth, and explosive uncertainty. Stars danced in the atmosphere and created their own love stories. They encapsulated the interest of so many individuals that they wrote stories about their endeavors, and Eddie gaping from his balcony on the 14th floor of the Wyndham building***, would envision tales of his own. A precept he believed to be truth was that the more time he spent gazing into that infinite space, the higher likelihood he would have of being able to unravel it’s wisdom. Like those spheres of carbon fire, he yearned to create a love story of his own, so he continued to gaze and listen to what the night had to teach him. He would often be found humming to himself, while craning his neck up towards the heavens.

* * *

After taking a much needed impromptu nap, around noon Eddie begrudgingly awoke to the sound of “Saved By the Bell” reruns on his television from the futon where he had passed out. And if you haven’t theorized by now, Eddie has a hankering for 1980’s pop culture. He did not even grow up in the 80’s, but felt a close attachment to the art that was produced during the decade. He owned about 3 different models of polaroid cameras, obsessively listened to synth/new wave pop, and would spend  _hours_  on the internet ordering the ideal parts for his motorcycle that would make it functional, yet retro. After seeing the 1987 RoboCop film Eddie felt he was destined to own a FXSTC Softail Custom Harley, and when his mother passed, he mustered the confidence to purchase his dream ride.

He would name her Silver. Silver wasn’t even silver in color, but he loved the aura that the name gave off. It was a name of power. Stability. And dependency.

Weakly pressing himself from the couch, he glimpsed menacingly through squinted eyes towards his microwave to see that the time read 12:13 PM.

“Fucking hell….”

He stumbled to the bathroom to inhale three IBuprofen tablets and a glass of water he had so graciously left himself a few hours ago. He glanced in the mirror and noticed he had the remnant of a sleep induced boner lingering, so a boiling shower was necessary before he could continue his day of self indulgences; the steamy shower being one in itself.

_Well. If I’m going to do this day right I might as well start with a happy beginning at noon._

After his shower, Eddie threw on a pair of perfectly fitted jeans and a yellow polo shirt, covered by a jean jacket that had some adorned patches on it. It was still late winter after all, he didn’t want to freeze while riding his his bike. Scrounging through his bathroom drawers he retrieved some hair mousse and wrestled with his grown out, wavy chestnut hair until it held up to his expectation. He knew the mousse would keep the shape for the short distance he had to ride of his bike, even with the helmet. And before he placed the hated helmet on his locks he reviewed his own constructed mantra in his head:

_May the hair not be greasy_

_The curls not go flat_

_Not fall for a man who’s sleazy_

_Amen_

Eddie may not have been the religious type, but he believed in sending his thoughts out into the universe. After all, maybe one day by some greater power his thoughts would be answered.

With his mantra internally spoken, and helmet strapped firmly to his head, Eddie Kaspbrak zoomed off to complete his list of favorite shenanigans to do around New York City.

* * *

Richie and Stan decided to share a hotel room at the Crowne Plaza*** close to LAX airport the night before their departure, Stan refusing to take part in the possibility of any delays or inconveniences. He was a poignant adult, unlike Richie, who probably would have been hungover and missed his plane if it weren’t for Stan. Since they would be inhabiting the jungle for a few months in the middle of fucking nowhere without the luxuries of home, they splurged on spending their last night in Los Angeles in an above average hotel. The room even came with a mini fridge stock-piled with little bottles of liquor and candy bars.

 _This here, this is tha’ suppa’ of champions! The only thing missing is a pack of cigs in this damn mini fridge. Now THAT’S a well balanced meal_ , crossed Richie’s mind.

Both Stan and Richie were resting their heads on their pillows of their separate beds, lightly quarreling as usual:

“Stanny boy, I am quaking with excitement for tomorr’a. I think we’re really going to make a scientific breakthrough here……ya know? We’ve talked about this since we were lil’ spermies. It’s always been you and me bud. My liaison of adventure.  _Stanley Manley,"_  Richie shifted his head and emitted an elated smile towards Stan.

“Jesus Rich, enough with the bullshit nicknames. How many times have I told you I hate that? But heck ya, I am just as excited as you are. I’ve never seen a quetzal or a hoatzin in the flesh, and I know how much of a dominant presence they have there. There’s a good chance I’ll be able to see those and more….. shit, maybe even a mot-mot! Remember the list I kept as a kid?”

“Yessir, the famous color coded mess book of beaks. Gunna whack the ones off that you can? Before I left your mom yesterday, she also let me whack off-”

“ _Richie._ ”

“Apologies, bird boy.”

Richie slinked off of the bed to to comically make his way towards the mini fridge, imitating the movements of an inchworm. With one eager hand he piled all of the personal sized bottles of liquor into the bottom of his shirt, using it as a pouch, and dumped them onto Stan’s bed.

“Let’s have a good night, dude. Here’s to the future," and Richie cracked open a mini bottle of José Cuervo silver to knock it back with the slightest shudder. Stan obliged, and chose a bottle of Jack Daniels to do the same, but without the shudder.

They ended up reminiscing for hours about times they spent together as kids while lounging on Stan’s bed, shrieking with laughter at certain moments of their own stupidity. Their neighbors were not pleased with the amount of noise the two grown men were making at 2 o’clock in the morning.

“Sta-an, do you rembembER the first time I wh-ent bird watchin’ with ya?” Richie asked.

“You were so fucking annoying, I swore to myself I-I would never take you again. But I guess I’m no good at keeping that promise, huh?” Stan followed with a chuckle, and drained another bottle of whiskey. This memory was a particularly fond one shared by Richie and Stan.

* * *

  _[Wednesday, April 29, 2003]_

_Stan sat with his legs crossed against a douglas fir tree, peering eagerly above into the coniferous tree forest. His ‘North American Field Guide to Birds’ book rested in his lap, opened to page 455 to reveal a picture and notes about the northern cardinal._

_Class: Aves_

_Order: Passeriformes_

_Family: Cardinalidae_

_Genus: Cardinalis_

_Species: Cardinalis cardinalis (Linnaeus, 1758)_

_Normally he would find himself alone to search his surroundings for flying creatures, but today was different. He brought along his best friend Richie for the first time, wanting to share his favorite hobby with his only friend. He hoped he wouldn’t regret his decision._

_“Richie, can you PLEASE keep still for like two seconds? I’m trying to see a cardinal, and you’re just going to scare everything away. To be a good bird watcher you need to be still and sil-”_

_Richie darted to chase away a group of dark-eyed juncos while howling with laughter. On his walk back to Stan he whistled and gently kicked a rock until he was satisfied with where it was placed._

_Stan exhaled under his breath a long “Fuuuuuuuuuck."_

_Richie eventually placed himself next to the other boy, also using the tree as a back rest, and kept quiet after many pleas from Stan. He would twiddle his fingers the whole time, however._

_They were silent for probably twenty minutes before a little red bird perched itself on a branch directly in front of them. Richie snapped his neck to his right to look at Stan who had eyes so wide he mustn’t of had eyelids. Stan slowly moved his hand to his pocket to retrieve a small pair of binoculars. He would peer into them for a few minutes, and excitedly passed them to Richie._

_“Isn’t he awesome?” Stan whispered._

_“How do you know it’s a guy?” Richie asked with his voice just as low as Stan’s, while still looking through the binoculars._

_“Well, males have a big crest on the top of their head, and they’re vibrantly red. The females are pretty boring looking," and he pointed his finger at a picture of a drab female cardinal._

_“Yeah, he’s actually kind of pretty. Want to look again?” Richie asked._

_Stan snatched the binoculars back and took another long look before the bird chose to fly away in a northern direction._

_“I must be your lucky charm, huh Stanley?!”_

_“Shut up Richie, you’re the worst," Stan remarked with an eye-roll but couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He wondered if Richie really was a good luck charm. He had placed himself in this exact spot for weeks to see the cardinal but never saw it. He knew very well that seeing this species of bird was rare in Maine, especially during this time of the year, and couldn’t help but look at the rambunctious buck-toothed boy and thank him silently._

* * *

 [Tuesday, February 27, 2018]

“ **RICHIE ARE YOU DONE IN THERE** ," Stan shouted as he banged against the bathroom door.

“Hold on princess, I’m just buttering moyself up fo’ ya!” Richie quickly shot back in a butchered cockney accent. He needed this long shower, in particularly to soothe the mind splitting headache that ravaged his entire body, from last night’s drinking escapades. He combed his fingers through his dark, curly mane and massaged his temples under the scorching water. His eyes were closed, body still, but his thoughts were deafening. As excited as Richie was for these upcoming three months, he was anxious as well. Undeniably Richie had anxiety issues, but was too stubborn to ever go to a professional for a diagnosis. He didn’t ever want to cloud his mind with anxiety relieving drugs, after personally observing the way it had turned his mom into a Prozac induced zombie. And he hated those drugs for effecting his beloved mother like that. He would use classical music instead to soothe his body during anxiety episodes, taking a particular liking to Mozart’s compositions.

After Richie stumbled out of the bathroom, Stan went through his morning tasks to prepare himself for the flight to come later that day. He would also face the day sporting knee-high rain boots, as would Richie. Nerves heightened and hangover lingering, they walked to the terminal entrance with their luggage to meet Beverly.

“Professors, it’s so good to see yo-, holy shit you guys look  _wrecked_. I mean, you look put together, but  _damn_. Where was my invite to this party?”

“We would have invited you Bev, but unfortunately we were too fucked up to even exist. Next time, I promise," Stan replied.

“Ya you goons better, I’m genuinely offended right now,” she huffed with an over exaggerated pout. Beverly hated missing out on a fun night, especially involving alcohol with her favorite people. They boarded their plane, and as expected Stan and Richie slept the entire plane ride into the Quito terminal, until Bev shook them both with angst to wake up. Stan had resisted to sleep with extreme persistence out of a fear of flying, but his body failed him and he drifted into a deep rest. Richie snored for the entirety of the flight, and his snores in concordance with the sounds of the crying child in the seat behind him created a symphony of annoying mayhem for the rest of the travelers on the airplane.

Once off the plane, the trio searched for a man holding a sign that read “Dr. Richard Tozier”, and piled into his taxi. The loading dock for the first boat into the rainforest was located 3 hours out of Quito, so they settled themselves comfortably in the backseat of the taxi, with Stan pulling out his copy of “Ready Player One”, Beverly finally taking a nap after not being able to on the plane, and Richie listening to Van Halen while resting his head on the window to look out the window. Eddie Van Halen’s guitar solos never ceased to amaze Richie.

 _Holy shit, everything is so....green. Lush. Just like the bath bomb place. Lush as fuck_ , he reasoned with himself. 

Around 4 PM in the evening, the biologists rolled up to the docking port to a group of anticipatory faces that were arranged in a half circle around each other with a decent amount of space in between them. None of these people knew each other after all, and were only about an hour in to being acquainted. Their guide, Mike Hanlon, opened up the back passenger door where Richie was sitting with a welcoming grin plastered to his face.

“Mr. Tozier! I’m honored to be able to finally meet you in person. Do you need help with your luggage?” he said as he gestured to the trunk.

“Call me Richie, Mike. Mr. Tozier is the man that impregnated my mother."

A shit-eating smile crossed Richie’s features and in the twinkle of his eyes, behind the thick horn-rimmed glasses. With heated cheeks Mike nodded his head, and continued to open the trunk of the taxi to retrieve the luggage of Stan, Beverly, and Richie. With their bags in hand, they headed over to the rest of the party awaiting their arrival close to the dock.

On his short walk over, Richie linked eyes with one of the individuals of his research team. And despite keeping his feet moving in a forward direction, he felt utterly paralyzed. The man was undeniably handsome, was impeccably dressed, and held a captivating stare from hazel eyes. Richie’s lips parted to exhale a nervous breath.

Mike began to zealously introduce Richie’s research team to the new arrivals, as so:

“It is my pleasure to introduce Ben, our medic for the trip. I trust that he’ll keep our asses safe. He’s been to my reserve before too so y’all have nothing to worry about."

Ben raised his chin and smiled bashfully at the group, raising a hand to wave while one hand remained in his pant’s pocket.

Mike looked over sweetly to a man named Bill, and continued with “ This is Bill Denbrough, our botanist. A man with a wild imagination, and intelligence."

Bill unexpectedly coughed out of surprise, being flattered. “H-H-Hi I’m Bill. I’m glad I could c-c-come on the trip."

Stan beheld this man differently than Richie and Bev. He was a tall man with straight auburn hair, and held a confidence that was respectable. Stan had never met this man before, but Bill carried a sense of home with him. Comfort. Stan looked at Bill with a gaze that resembled that of a person who hadn’t seen their best friend in 10 years.

“And this is Eddie Kaspbrak, a renowned nature photographer from National Geographic. A born talent."

Richie and Eddie glued eyes to each other. Electricity singed between these two pairs of eyes. Richie stared at the waves gliding across Eddie’s forehead, and noticed at a closer view that his left pupil was keyholed.

 _Woah_.

There was a moment of silence and Mike shoved Richie in hopes he would have a response after his brief introductions, “….Richie?”. Richie returned to a state of mild authority and reached out a hand to shake Eddie’s.

“I’m Richie Tozier, pleased to make your acquaintance  _buttercup,"_  Richie said while wiggling his eyebrows flirtatiously.

Eddie had previously thought that this man was going to be old, boring, and with a stick up his ass just by his name. He hadn’t even bothered to look him up online. Holy motherfucking shit was he wrong. This man was nearly his age, brilliant, and... hot. He hoped he wouldn’t be in trouble with pining for the lead scientist for three months.

“I’m Eddie. Nice to meet you,  _cherryblossom._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed chapter 2! Let me know what you think as always, and thanks for reading friends. 
> 
> ***the Wyndham building is not fictional and is actually located in New York City
> 
> How I imagine part of Eddie’s apartment:
> 
> https://www.google.com/search?rlz=1CALEAI_enUS790US790&biw=1366&bih=654&tbm=isch&sa=1&ei=tNvGWtugGOGY0gLs9qfgBw&q=new+york+apartment+interior&oq=new+york+apartm&gs_l=psy-ab.3.5.0j0i67k1j0j0i67k1j0l2j0i67k1j0l3.34133.36013.0.39862.15.8.0.7.7.0.116.779.5j3.8.0….0…1c.1.64.psy-ab..0.15.866….0.sasZGuvXVLk#imgrc=MCgjbHAm5ZWH9M:
> 
> Eddie’s motorcycle:
> 
> https://www.google.com/search?rlz=1CALEAI_enUS790US790&biw=1366&bih=654&tbm=isch&sa=1&ei=uwrHWoiRLMeQ0wLNnYioBQ&q=FXSTC+softail+red+Harley&oq=FXSTC+softail+red+Harley&gs_l=psy-ab.3…39077.39355.0.39521.3.3.0.0.0.0.95.244.3.3.0….0…1c.1.64.psy-ab..0.0.0….0.mn9dCDoiZxo#imgrc=7L01cKyX67Cf6M:
> 
> ***The Crowne Plaza; Richie and Stan’s hotel room:
> 
> https://www.google.com/search?q=crowne+plaza+lax&rlz=1CALEAI_enUS790US790&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwicwrSgyqTaAhVT6Z8KHQHiDa0Q_AUICygC&biw=1366&bih=654#imgrc=MXY4GWD9CFRgxM:


	3. Flirty Garbage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally some good ol' sexual tension and a wee bit of angst.

“I’m Eddie. Nice to meet you,  _cherryblossom,"_  Eddie responded taking Richie’s hand into a firm grasp, maintaining assertive eye contact the entire time. He additionally made a point of mirroring Richie’s eyebrow wiggles right back at him. If this  _Richie Tozier_  man wanted to play a game of flirty intimidation, Eddie was never one to cower or willingly allow himself to be obviously flustered. The competitive aspect to his personality glimmered in moments like these.

_Did he just fucking call me cherryblossom? Shit, I have to step up my game. He’s a quick one…… papa likey._

Slightly taken aback, Richie’s cheeks began to flush a light pink against his pale, freckled skin. His eyes widened at Eddie’s striking response and a huge smile began to consume his entire face. At the sight of the lead scientist’s amused and growing smile, Eddie exhaled a bashful laugh letting their handshake linger a little longer than a normal handshake would. Both men would experience a chilling shiver stemming from their tailbones, shooting to where their hands were currently interlocked. They were unaware however, that it was a mutual jolt.

Their hands parted, and Richie dramatically placed a hand over his heart, “Well aren’t you a cute little firecracker! I think we’ll get along just fine Eds m’dear." Stan and Bev perked their eyebrows simultaneously and peeped at each other through an inconspicuous glance.

_Great. This man is a total jackass. An alluringly beautiful jackass. Fuck._

“Okay one,  **rude** , I am not  _cute_. Two, I am not little, I am a grown-ass man. I’m just not a towering tube of string cheese, like yourself. And three, don’t call me Eds. My name is Eddie," he huffed indignantly. ‘Towering tube of string cheese’ made Richie spit out a laugh, as he fumbled in his short’s pocket for a cigarette to spark.

“Alrighty Eddie Spaghetti, let me help you with all your purses then since it appears your hands are full," Richie said with a smirk as he alluded with a glance at Eddie’s tightly crossed arms. Ben had been watching this exchange and let out a “Ooooooooooo” with peaked amusement. Richie briskly scooped up some random bags off of the floor (not even knowing if they were Eddie’s or not) and headed towards their boat that had just pulled up to the dock, Bill and Mike already loading materials onto the deck. Working his hardest to skip with all the baggage and skillfully balancing the lit cigarette between his lips in between puffs, Richie looked utterly absurd. He tripped  and nearly face planted twice in the process. His unruly black curls bounced up and down with his unrhythmic skips, and flopped in his face carelessly.

Eddie gaped at him through an ajar mouth, and dropped his arms to his sides with clenched fists, “ _ **Excuse**_  me! Eddie Spaghetti? What the fu-”

“Edward Spaghedward it is then! What a dazzling compromise!” Richie exclaimed behind him. Ben, Stanley, and Beverly at the same time all went “OOOOOOOH”, three times as loud than Ben’s initial time. Eddie’s body temperature was piping hot, with steam nearly escaping his pores. He had a hard time distinguishing if this was because he was fueled with anger, or arousal. Perhaps a rising mixture of both intense emotions were to blame.

 _What the FUCK….. is happening here? Damnit Eddie, say something_ , Eddie thought with not even faintly being able to hide his ruffled state. His heart was pulsating at an exponentially rising rate, and blood was travelling to unwanted places for the moment being. This only frustrated him more.

For one of the few times in his life, Eddie was left speechless by the audacity of none other than Richard fucking Tozier. This being the first time from another man, and not his mother. The last time words escaped him this abruptly, his mother had forced him as a tween to a make a call to his dying grandmother. When the phone receiver didn’t pick up, her preceding voicemail message began to play:  _Please leave me a message lovely, but don’t be surprised if you don’t hear back from me…. Hopefully I’ll have enough time on God’s Earth to get back to you in time. With everlasting love, Gayle._

Sonia’s mother Gayle was perhaps even more guilt-tripping than Sonia herself. Eddie was not a particular fan of his grandmother (not one fucking bit), and  _dreaded_  making this phone call to only be faced with this disaster of a voicemail message. Instead of leaving his grandmother a (not) heartfelt message about how he was (not) excited to see her soon, he breathed into the other line heavily for a few seconds, then sharply hung up. Sonia’s shouts were heard briefly by Eddie, who had darted upstairs to barricade himself in his room. To this day Eddie resents that blip in his timeline, with Grammy Gayle’s macabre recorded words looming in his nightmares occasionally.

Stan closed the gap of distance between himself and Eddie, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder to turn him, “I feel for ya Eddie. There’s no use in trying to get him to drop the awful nicknames he procreates, trust me. He calls me  _Stanley Manley_. I gave him the nickname Trashmouth when we were kids, for obvious reasons." Stan gave Eddie a sympathetic smile through pinched lips, displaying his dimples prominently.

“It’s his fucked up way of showing endearment Eddie, we swear," Bev interjected kindly. Eddie felt a soft warmth radiate through his body while looking at Beverly, but it was a different breed of warmth that he felt in comparison to the heat that was set ablaze when looking at Richie. Immediately he aspired to become close friends with her on this trip.

“And call me Bev, by the way. Beverly is so formal, and kind of sounds like an elderly republican woman from the 50’s. Just don’t call me Bevvie, that’s what my deadbeat father used to call me," she stately lightheartedly, regardless of the dark background she had just revealed about herself.

“Of course…. Bev. I think that’s a lovely name."

Bev flipped her long fiery hair over her shoulder, with satisfied sass.

Eddie turned his attention towards Stan again, “Christ Stan, you’ve known this guy since you were kids? My condolences," but Eddie said this with little venom in his voice after cooling down a bit, even projecting a coy smile.

He continued, “And I gotta say Trashmouth is a wildly appropriate name for him, not even a nickname. Trashmouth Tozier. It’s got complimenting, annoying alliteration to it.”

“Yeah dude’s got a mouth with more horsepower than-”

“-a team of dragsters that fuel up on flirty garbage.”

Both Stan and Bev cackled loudly out of surprised entertainment. “I was going to say a truck, but that was a hell of a lot funnier and way more descriptive. You and Rich have more in common than I would have ever thought." Eddie playfully scowled, as Beverly used the back of her hand to wipe away a tear that begun to well in the corner of her eye.  

“C’mon guys, time’s a tickin’!” Mike gleefully shouted, pointing to his watch.

“Grab your shit and let’s get goin’, I’d like to get to the reserve before it’s pitch black preferably! Órale!”

Stan snapped back into his orderly Stanley manner, minutely appalled that Richie had been over at the boat assisting Bill and Mike, while he was joking around and possibly making everyone run behind their set schedule. Beverly and Ben followed shortly after, carrying as much as they could in their arms, and pulling along what they were able to with the tips of their fingers. Bev was a notorious “one-tripper”; Richie had countless times been impressed by her balancing methods to get all of her marketing groceries inside her apartment in one go. Ben followed her lead, wanting to match her zeal. Eddie was the last to stroll towards the boat, reviewing in his head if he had forgotten anything for his journey. He knew this act was pointless, but he continued to do so anyway to calm his nerves while clutching his fanny pack (which he thoughtfully waterproofed with Scotchguard).

_Baseball cap, check. Benedryl, check. Ukulele and case, Check. Extra pillow case, got it. I think I packed everyth…… **no**. Oh no. No. No no no no no no no no.  **FUCK**. SHIT FUCK.  **GOD NO I’M SUCH A FUCKING IDIO-**_

He forgot his freakin’ bathing suit. Eddie panicked in his head at the sudden rude awakening that he left his brand new swim trunks in his shower, back at his apartment in New York. He wanted to make sure they had been washed post purchase, after picturing a flu ridden person trying them on in the dressing room before deciding they didn’t want them. Desperately attempting to sequester this realization, he shook his head side to side making himself unintentionally dizzy, and floated towards the boat earnestly. Richie by coincidence had actually grabbed most of his bags, and he didn’t have too many items to tote over. Eddie soothed himself by mumbling under his breath that everything would be fine, and he would try to solve his minor predicament later. This was a small issue, at least he was definite he had all of his precautionary medications and camera equipment. Someone must have packed an extra pair.

* * *

“Everyone take a seat please, get comfortable because we’ve got some ways to go before we get to Yasuni National Park. This is Jairo, he’s another guide that lives on the reserve with me, and a dear friend," Mike shifted his figure to reveal Jairo crouching by the roaring rutter of the large panga boat. The party raised their chins after hearing a group of  ***SQUAUKS*** above their heads, all pinpointing a pandemonium of parrots flying overhead. Stan’s eyes danced with wild excitement. Richie had taken the seat to Stan’s left and both of them without looking away from the flock let out in a hitched breath, “ _Amazona festiva_ ” at exactly the same time. Eddie returned his head from admiring the birds, to glance at Stan and Richie whom he sat across from. He had tried to snap a picture of the birds, but was unsuccessful in retrieving his camera quick enough.

 _Amazing that they both knew what species of bird that was, they must have mental storage capacities of fucking encyclopedias. That could have been any kind of eagle. Or parrot. Or, I don’t know. Any kind of feathered thing,_  and Eddie smiled watching them revel at the sky. They bore the innocence of children for that minute in time. Eddie would witness many more instances like these shared between the ebullient biologists on their trip. Richie lifted his arm to comb his hand through his matted hair to get a better look without curls fanning in front of his eyes; Eddie innately began to daydream that he was intertwining his own hands through Richie’s locks, tugging on free-flying strands, snaking his fingers behind his neck to pull him clos-

 _Eddie, stop. This is a business trip. You’re getting paid for this, be professional. You can resume being horny and lonely again when you get back,_  but he replayed these words without truly taking them to heart.

“Hola señoras y señores,  _¡Aye!_ Señora," Jairo corrected himself having noticed Bev was the only female present. She giggled, and imitated the way the Queen of England would wave, straightening her slouch as well.

“Jairo here should get us to the reserve in about an hour, so enjoy yourselves. Not very many people get to see this beautiful place. Oh, and watch out for the misting on the sides of the boat if you lean too far over, I guarantee you will get soaked."

Richie slyly mouthed to Bev, who was sitting next to Eddie, “More soaked than I make your mom." Her eyes barrelled in their sockets, and she pretended to gag while pointing down her throat. Through squinted eyes she lipped back “Beep beep, fucker”, resulting in a suppressed snigger from Richie. For the remainder of their boat ride, Stan made Richie switch spots with him so that he could sit next to the botanist, who went by Bill. Stan wanted to prod his mind about plant ecology, but mainly intended to get a closer look at the man’s friendly face, which he also saw was freckled. Not nearly to the extent that Richie or Bev was freckled, however.

Edward Kaspbrak’s eyes for the next twenty minutes would assault Richie’s figure in a curiously predatory process. Besides being blatantly struck by Richie, Eddie was also an excellent observer, which was often reflected in his photography. He keenly noticed a few new details about him:

  1. He was covered in small bruises, scratches, and had a conglomerate of differently themed band aids on him. Eddie noted both a Hello Kitty, and a Batman one. He tried hard to not think about the ones he couldn’t see under Richie’s clothes.
  2. A tree of life tattoo was inked into his right forearm, as well as the phrase ‘Veni Vidi Vici’ on the inside of his left bicep. On his left hand, he also had three vertical dots tattooed on the length of his thumb. Eddie had never been interested in men with tattoos before, but Richie’s were intricately drawn, and artistically placed. These tattoos,  _Richie’s_ tattoos, were actually pretty sexy. Perhaps one day soon he would feel comfortable enough with Richie to ask the backstory behind his permanent artwork.
  3. And finally, he fidgeted a LOT. This human being could not keep still, or remain comfortable in any sitting position for longer than a minute or two. He would switch from crossing his legs, to sitting his entire weight on them while they were folded underneath, to extending both (with one shaking back and forth) while he drummed his fingers mindlessly along the panga. He seemed like an obsessive nail biter as well, but would then pull out a dull pencil from behind his right ear and do quite impressive tricks with it; circular twirling, rolling it between his fingers, flicking it with his thumb and middle finger so that it skipped over a digit back into a writing position. Once satisfied, he returned the pencil to behind his ear ( _Is that an industrial bar in his ear…? Fuck, I need to be closer to be sure_ ). These seemed like anxious tendencies. 



Richie in the meantime had leaned towards Stan’s ear and slurred a loud  ***psssSSST***  into it.

Stan jerked towards Richie surprised with, “ _Fuck_ , Richard what do you want? I was busy if you can’t tell," tilting his head towards a confused Bill.

“I’ve been eavesdropping on your failing courting skills babycakes, is he a yummy cup of Stanley  _tea_?”

“I swear to God, even whispering you grind my fucking gears-”

“He’s got a hell of a stutter, do you think he’s good at beatboxing?”

This rightfully earned Richie a quick backhanded slap to his nuts, in which he reacted predictably by hunching over in between staccatoed whimpers.

“You’re lucky you’re in charge of all this, otherwise I would have shoved my foot so far up your ass you would have choked on it."

“It would have only…. ch-huh-ased…. my cli-imax…… Sta-" followed by another fully clenched punch to the side of his ribs. Man, Richie loved messing with Stan. Even through his expected self inflicted pain by his childhood friend, he lived for tousling Stan’s nerves. Stan half-heartedly prayed Richie would find someone else he favored to torment, even though he appreciated the attention.

Richie had for quite some time felt a certain pair of hazel doe-eyes burning into the side of his face, and finally turned to meet Eddie’s licentious gaze. His face went smug, sending his admirer a wink and a coquettish bite into the humid air. Eddie blinked rapidly to bring his trance back to reality, and shot his eyes down to his lap in complete embarrassment. He lost track of how long he had been staring, and frankly was too frantic to think about who else may have seen him openly ogling over Richie.

 _Shit_.

Richie continued to challenge Beverly once more to reading his lips, as he spoke only to her from across the boat.

“Cutie next to ya has been eye fuckin’ me, I let him do it for about a half hour. Switch spots?” he eagerly asked. She teased him with thinking it over by massaging a goatee that didn’t exist on her face, and obliged with a scheming, “…..okay, yessir." Bev lifted herself from her spot, and traded places with Richie who plopped himself next to Eddie bearing a toothy grin. Stan returned to conversing with Bill and was so enticed he hadn’t even noticed there was a shift of weight next to him, despite the buoyant blown-up benches they sat on.  

* * *

Girlfriends and boyfriends came and went with the seasons: gothic winters, auburn autumns, summer brunettes, and spring blondes. They would laugh at his senseless jokes, go on dates, hangout with his friends, roughly fuck in fits of animalistic passion, but there was never love. A mutual love. Many had said the words ‘I love you’, but none were returned by Richie with genuity. Truthfully he had lied a few times and returned the empty phrase, but his mind spoke “ _Cool, thanks. I love me too_ ”.

Richie was exceptionally good at hiding his emotions. This never derived from neglectful parents that wouldn’t openly listen to his feelings, however. Wentworth and Maggie Tozier were even supportive when teenage Richie accidentally blurted one blazed-out night that he was bisexual. He was their only child, and they loved and supported him endlessly, even if they could not be physically present at most times. They were eternally busied with monotonous daily life obligations, but made as much time as they could afford for their unique son. Their bright, eccentric son. Richie was, and still is, a human that is difficult to understand in his entirety, but his parents would each day try their best to relate to him. Richie just never wanted to burden any other person with his sincere sentiments, viewing them as a weakness to his potential. His emotions were obsolete, and needn’t to be shown more attention to feed vulnerability. The science-oriented chasm of his brain convinced him that emotions would tamper his perception of how the world actually worked, even at an early age. The relationships he would attempt to build would parallel this trend; both friendships and romantic relations. Rarely  **anyone**  saw him break his goofy stereotype. Family members would pass, tragedy would strike financially in the household, bones would break from carelessness, and still tears would not be shed and rallying jokes would be spewed. Over the span of the next few months, he would be educated more in depth about how life encirculates, than he had ever been taught through a higher education or his parentals. One individual would make this painfully clear.

“Hi’ya gorgeous, you preoccupied with something?”

Eddie hardened his eyes and declared, “Don’t flatter yourself, I was just eyeing the gross grease stains on your shirt."

“Oh, oh pardon me. I didn’t realize wandering into the Amazon would require a New York fashion week  _prestige._ "

Eddie huffed mildly offended, “Your ego baffles me. How Stan and Bev, or  _anyone_  has put up with you for so long shows a lot of character. You’re relentlessly annoying, ya know," but Eddie was smirking wildly. Yes, he hated the stains. But, he was doomed for Richie’s smile.

“And yet, you’re still here. On  **my**  research trip. Go figure."

“Hey, it’s good money and  _you_  need  _me_. Duty calls….. _Doctor,_ ” and Eddie batted his eyelashes.

_Oh, fuck he just said the ‘D’ word. And those eyelashes should be fucking illegal. Fuck._

Richie felt his nerves twitch at the sound of ‘doctor’ leaving Eddie’s mouth. He had never admitted this to anyone before, even Stan, but being called doctor was a major kink of his. There was an overturning dream he recurrently had that exhibited a handsome man bent over in front of him screaming, “…Oh,  _Doctor_! Fuck me……harder,  _please_!….ahhhhhh… harder,  _Doctor_!”. It didn’t matter in what setting, or what time, ‘doctor’ had him strangled by a fucking leash. Having a Ph.D should have its perks, and he wished he was able to utilize that title more often in ways he wished, over professionalism. Normally in a playful conversation as so, Richie would place a hand on the thigh of his aficionado to create intentional sexual dominance, but here he felt….. nervous. Eddie held a confidence and wit that made his chest delightfully uneasy, yet kindled an uncontrollable fire in his groin.

“Yeah yeah okay, don’t get too ahead of yourself Eds, I’m only gonna keep you around because of that pretty face of yours." Richie’s voice was a little shaky, with his head deep in the gutter imagining Eddie replacing the man in his dream.

“Too bad you’re too dim to do it all yourself. A one-named published paper would really make headlines, don’t you think? National Geo would eat that  _brilliance_  up,” Eddie teased and seemed to be regaining his lost sense of self control, with Richie clearly capsizing under his responses. “…..and don’t call me Eds  _sheesh._ ”

Eddie was a breath of fresh, unpolluted, sassy air. He spoke to Richie in snarkier repartee than Beverly had always countered with, and he absolutely  **loved**  it. Eddie challenged him, and it was a rarity to meet another person that exceeded matching Richie in any fashion; especially with emotions. Always having had the upper hand in controlling how he felt, Richie experienced a new sensation of feeling at the will of another person’s actions, presence, and existence. When Richie stole side glances at Eddie Kaspbrak his heart would do uninvited summersaults, lending his body to give a physical reaction of a quiver. Of course, this new intense surge of emotion made him apprehensive and quite confused, but he truly never wanted conversations with Eddie to end. The laughs Eddie earned from him were authentic, and came with ease.

“Apologies Spaghetti Man, my mouth vomits words faster than I can think the whole sentence through”, Richie chuckled. He scooted closer to Eddie’s side and shifted his butt out from under him a bit so he could have level eye contact during their conversation. “…so tell me, what are your favorite things to photograph?”

Richie peered at him through anticipatory curious eyes for an answer, but Eddie choked on words as another sudden observation struck that would definitely be added to his mental notepad of Richie qualities. There was one particular aspect about his physical being that Eddie was not able to observe from afar, for he had never been close enough to see: his eyes. Richie’s irises were a shady hue of gray sapphire; thunderous storms of chaotic mutiny. And they were absolutely  _mesmerizing_. Eddie thought that he could lose himself in those eyes forever if he wasn’t careful. Richie had previously observed Eddie’s keyhole pupil, but he now also found himself lured and trapped in its distinctiveness. Coloboma was a rare condition, and Eddie’s case looked like a perfect keyhole enveloped in hazel curtains.  

Normally he would not have had to even give his answer a second thought, but the distraction in front of him caused a brief pause, “Well, I love to photograph stars. Growing up in the city, I never really got to see many. I really do like taking pictures of anything in a natural state though….. untouched by human grubby, selfish hands."

“That’s beautiful, Eds. You’ll see a hell of a lot more stars than you’ve ever seen in your damn life out here. I’ll take ya stargazing one night, how does that sound?” he said as he lifted up a finger to tenderly ‘boop’ Eddie on the tip of his nose. Eddie wrinkled his nose, and reactively spasmed at Richie’s touch.

“That would be really awesome, Richie. Thanks," and both men smiled affectionately at one another.

* * *

***KHDACK*PFFFFFFFFT***

***KHDACK*PFFFFFFFFT***

The calmness established in the party’s boat was abruptly disturbed by two cracks of a shotgun coming from down the river in the direction they were headed. Everyone’s blood drained from their faces as they whipped their heads towards the explosive gunshots.  

“Wh-whu-what the f-f-f-fuck was that?” Bill quickly asked and nervously looked to Mike for answers. Mike’s demeanor seethed with rage, still glaring at the approaching bend of the river and not paying Bill any notice. Jairo’s eyes were equally venomous. A few seconds pass.

***DHADACK*DHADACK*DHADAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK***

An assault rifle screamed, sending more flocks of birds to flee away from the imminent danger.

“MIKE WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” Bill exclaimed losing all trace of his stutter.

“I can’t believe they were fucking allowed back in this fucking area, I am going to wring their fucking necks with my own bare han-”

“ **-MIKE** ,” Bill thrusted himself up and approached lividity from not getting a response. He had a frighteningly dominant presence when his stutter flew out the fucking window.

Around the corner of the river came charging a medium sized motorboat covered in metal plating, with viciously dressed men hanging off the sides and standing at the bow. Large animal skins draped as ornaments and as flags, displaying in a barbaric manner that this was unmistakably a poacher’s boat.  

This sight immediately made Richie’s blood boil.

The boat pulled sharply alongside of the research party’s panga boat, knocking into it with harsh force. A tall, platinum blonde serpentine man approached the edge of the poacher’s boat, wearing a blood-thirsty sneer directed at Mike. He had the assault rifle slung menacingly across his body.

“Glad to see ya again, Mikey. You miss me, boy?”

Through gritted teeth Mike said under his breath, “Henry. Fucking. Bowers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story only continues to get better my dudes….. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Got any theories of where this is going to go? Next chapter is going to be a WILD ride, so buckle the fuck up!! It contains one of my favorite scenes of the fic. Thank you for reading as always, and spread the good word on tumblr, where you can also read my work (@hypnoidvoid). Give me all the comments and messages if ya want, I LOVE hearing all you guys’ feedback~


	4. Moonlight Tide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. This is a monster of a chapter and I’m SO proud of it so I hope you enjoy! I haven’t slept all night finishing it up because I promised it Monday and now it’s Tuesday morning, but it was fun af so I can sleep when I’m dead HA 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include violence, blood, and mild racial slurs for those concerned. However, the second half is pure romantic fluff so I hope you can stick it through!

“Henry. Fucking. Bowers."

Mike assertively walked himself to the edge of their boat to face the poacher who was assumably Henry, and skillfully drew a semi-automatic pistol with one hand out of a concealed side pouch, pointing it inches away from Henry’s face. His nostrils were flared, his eyes locked on his target, and hand was steady around the handle of the weapon.

“Rich what in the FUCK did you sign us up for?” Stan yiped in complete dishevelment to Richie, who was across from him. His eyes were desperate for security in answers that no one could give. There was a gun drawn, and Stan’s orderly nature was not accustomed to the heightening entropy.

Richie’s jaw just hung slightly open, with eyes fixed on Mike. In fact, everyone’s eyes were. In the span of a minute, Mike went from being a warm host to summoning a gun from fucking thin air like an undercover assassin.

_Fuck, fuck please don’t let anyone get hurt here. Please let us simple nerds obsess over plants and birds and insects and snakes in peace, god fucking damnit._

“Now you, and your asshole goonies listen to me. I don’t know how you got back in these parts, but you’re not welcomed. Never have been. And you need to fucking leave before shit gets messier than they did last time. Got it?” Mike demanded.

“Woah woah Jungle Bunny, I thought we left on good terms last time? I almost feel like we buds now, no need fo’ hostility. We ain’t lookin’ fo’ no trouble," but the nasty sneer on his face spoke the polar opposite. Henry let out a sharp laugh and licked his cracked lips, not showing any sign of fear or submission despite having a gun pointed inches from his face. His gaul was disturbing, and left everyone in the panga boat unsettled. There was little sanity to Henry, and it was immediately obvious.

Beverly swore she saw Henry’s tongue was forked when he licked his lips, making her shudder. This ungodly man with a slurry Southern accent may just be the human embodiment of a fatally venomous basilisk.  

“Yeah, we don’t want no trouble Mikey!” a heavyset poacher chimed from the other side of the bow. He released a bellowing burp after, that echoed through the humid air.

“Belch here is right! We’re a group of humble men just trynna do ah job. Don’ get in our way, and we won’ get in yours," Henry added. You could see the whites of his slightly bloodshot eyes, before he snapped his head around and began to stomp away from Mike. Mike slowly lowered his pistol, but kept it firmly gripped by his side.

“Stay out of Yasuni, Bowers. Final warning."

“Mhm, of cou’se yes! We gon’ be on our way now,  _too-da-loo_. Was a pleasure talkin’ to ya, boy”, trailing off to angle his head and wink at Ben.

“You too Benny. Start ‘er up Vic!” Henry ordered. Vic was well distanced from the others, placed behind the steering controls of the floating metal disaster. This person was exceedingly different from the other poachers, however. He dressed more modest, had combed blonde hair, and didn’t wear an expression that was particularly threatening. This was the face of someone who had no other option than to be on this boat with Henry. With indifference consuming Vic’s features, he nodded and revved the engine to signal take off.

Before their boat lurched further into the murky water, Vic’s face softened when he made a point to catch Ben’s glimpse. Sympathy and mild regret replaced his chiseled stoicism.

As they departed, Henry whipped off the assault rifle from his back and shot multiple rounds into the evening sky through deep banshee laughs. He was laughing so furiously saliva was sputtering out of his fully stretched mouth. Belch was influenced to do the same and fired his shotgun as an encore.

It’s unclear at what point, but Richie and Eddie during this engagement latched hands in a near death grip. It had been a natural outreach for any kind of comfort in the face of danger. Once Henry’s boat was out of sight, they looked down at their connected hands and quickly released their grips with fierce blushes beginning to heat their cheeks.

Jairo started their motor back up again, turning his attention from the scene that just took place, wanting to bury that encounter and get to their destination promptly. The next few minutes were spent in silence, with everyone a little speechless and still dwelling in the tension that resided. Bill was the first to speak.

“M-M-ike, do you-u have something-g to tell u-uh-us?”

After contemplating a concise response Mike explained with a sigh, “We used to have a lot of problems with poachers in the national park before laws were established, and unfortunately the guidelines of these laws are still pretty unclear and have loopholes. See, they’d be commissioned by wealthy patrons to come and hunt big game bu-”

“And there’s nothing you could do about it? What about the police?” Bev interrupted.

“They can be paid off. Too easily. And with the sums the patrons lend the poachers there’s plenty to go ‘round."

“I’ll never be able to forget the last time we ran into Henry, it was a hell of a lot worse than this. Trust me. I hope we don’t see them ever again, they’re bad fuckin’ news," Ben said while anxiously pulling his hand up to massage his neck. Eddie noticed a faded scar on Ben’s neck that vaguely resembled an ‘H’.

_What a strange birthmark._

“I’m not expecting another run in with their gang, folks. I’m alerting the coast guard the second we get to the station, hopefully they’ll handle this situation better than local authorities," Mike grumbled. “And I apologize you had to witness that, you just gotta be prepared for everything and anything out here. The only thing these fuckers are able to understand is equal intimidation. There’s no reasoning with words, or common decency."

* * *

  _[Tuesday, August 11, 2017]_

_Mike and Ben exchanged laughs while enjoying an early lunch side by side on a fallen tree that overlooked part of the Amazon River. The weather was blissful, the sun was partially jaded by thick mist, and a whispering breeze danced through the trees and minimal showers. A curious grackle made an appearance every few minutes to see if they would be dropping any food for her, but they knew better than to feed the wildlife. She screamed at them every time when they refused, and shooed her away. Grackles were mischievous, cunning little shits. If any living creature truly belonged to the Slytherin house at Hogwarts, grackles placed first. Nevertheless, they are always entertaining. The bulging eyes they bore and neurotic demeanor made them look like their puppeteer would have a severe case of cocaine shakes._

_The men had become quite acquainted over the last few months, assisting with numerous independent researchers to come in and out of Mike’s research station. Ben had even offered to stay an extended period, because he grew to appreciate Mike’s presence so inherently. Of course Ben Hanscom had some friends back home, but none of which occupied the same mental wavelength that Mike could. Being very well read, and coming from educated backgrounds, they discussed animatedly about books they cherished and poetry that they found soul enriching. It was a shared opinion that the horror novel ‘The Shining’ was a cult classic of beautifully written gore that would leave you full, but morbid poems such as ‘Annabel Lee’ would induce depression and should not be read past midnight._

_Not to mention, they were both well versed cinephiles. A strong friendship kindled between these two like-minded, kind hearts with ease._

_“Listen, as much as I like classics I’m a sucker for fantasy. I admire the imagination it takes to create your own alternate universe. Lord of the Rings was one of the dopest trilogies I’ve ever seen."_

_“Yeah, okay okay I see your point. But side with me on one thing, or we can’t be friends. And I mean it Michael…… could Rose have fit Jack on that wooden door and saved his life. Or no," Ben jested with raised eyebrows._

_“Ms. Selfish could have 100%, Illuminati confirmed, made space for Jack so that they both could have survived. ‘I’ll never let go’? Yeah okay, dumb bitch try again."_

_“Oh, thank God. I’m still bitter-”_

_***DHADACK*DHADACK*DHADAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*** _

_“What the fu-”_

_***DHADACK*DHADACK*DHADAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*** _

_Ben and Mike were frozen, and stood with spines painfully perpendicular to the ground; not necessarily out of fear, but out of shock. They hadn’t heard the screech of any kind of machinery in months. Curiosity burned, as they scanned their surroundings for an answer._

_***DHADACK*DHADACK*DHADAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*** _

_With a flinch Mike realized, “Holy shit that’s a gun. Ben, that’s a gun. An assault rifle I think. My grandfather had one when I was growing up on the farm and that’s exactly what it sounded like-”_

_***DHADACK*DHADACK*DHADAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*DAK*** _

_The shots were closer this time, and they watched as their grackle scurried in the opposite direction. Her screams alerted a separate kind of attention this time._

_Around the corner came recklessly flying a boat that spun 180 degrees before ropes were thrown over the side to be tied around the molded dock posts. A group of men emptied out onto the dock and ascended the steps to Mike’s station. Neither Ben nor Mike had decent enough far-vision to discern if they appeared friendly or not, but they were entering their home for the time being and action needed to be taken. Hopefully there was a warm greeting, and thorough explanation prepared._

_Nope._

_“Mike, who are these guys? Did you invite them?”_

_“No, I didn’t…… let me go grab Jairo, maybe he knows them. Fingers crossed they weren’t the idiots who shot off the guns. Go talk to them, I’m right behind you. I promise," but he said this with the least bit of confidence, harboring denial and quickly sought out Jairo for possible reassurance._

_Ben watched as Mike sprinted towards the station, feeling an emptiness sheathe his body. He was alone, and about to face a possible threat. The harsh déjà vu of his childhood smacked him square across the face as the fat, lonely boy he used to be crept back into the cells of his stomach and thighs._

_He wanted to throw up. So he did._

_Ben scowled, angrily wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and placed his hand atop the utility knife he had holstered to his side in a leather pouch while still crouched over. Bullies, and other assailants, were no longer on his list of people to recoil from and he was prepared for a fight if need be. He knew he had blossomed from a targeted, plump child who appreciated artistic hobbies and helping others to be a strong and physically fit adult that bled confidence for being passionate towards the same interests he had as a child. He didn’t need to be afraid anymore. He was a medic, a helper. He was a scholar, a lover._

_So, bring it on bitches._

_Ben marched over to the docks with his hand still looming over his knife, prepared if the situation called for action. As he began to descend the cedar steps, he prepared his words. Unfortunately, they were not carefully prepared enough, and he would have never been prepared even if he rehearsed an infinite amount of times._

_“Hey fellas, do you have a reservation?”_

_“No, honky we don’t. Passin’ through is all. Now brush ya ass aside so we can-" Henry attempted to persecute._

_“That’s not how this place works, **HONKY** ,” and Ben shoved the palm of his hand into Henry’s chest firmly to halt him from proceeding any further. Ben was shaken at his own audacity with the feral looking man in front of him, standing about 5 inches taller, who returned his fireback with a villainous smile._

_“Christ Almighty, yes yes. I like you. Wha’s ya name?”_

_Ben stumbled on his words with suspicious uncertainty of the motives of this creaton, “Ben. Name’s Ben. I’m the medic here," and he stuck out his hand accordingly to shake a hand. The handshake was never reciprocated. Instead, Henry reached out a claw to grasp Ben’s chin._

_“Love’leh meeting ya Ben, so so glad to meet ya. Mah name’s Henry, Henry Bowers. And since you’s a doc, you’ll be able to take care o’ ya damn fuckin’ self in a sec. I’m gunna make sure ya nev’a fo’get mah name. **BOYS**!”_

_Ben’s arms were snatched in a harsh grip from two neighboring men that aggressively pushed him against the posts behind him. They exhaled hollow laughs._

_Henry repositioned his hand from Ben’s chin to press his thumb and middle finger under Ben’s jaw. His nails were too long and jagged for someone who prided in personal hygiene. Henry was an apex predator with all traces of humanity dissolved, conceiving a glare that would brutally murder an innocent child for profitable bounty._

_Staring into Ben he mused to his men, “He steady? I don’ wan’ him squirmin’ when I mark ‘im." There was an insatiably hungry slurp of his lips with a forked tongue. Bloodlust fueled Henry’s body; he wanted to see viscous pools of iron flow._

_Ben looked over to the edge of the dock coincidentally where Vic was standing; he looked sickened, utterly green in the face. Even though Ben was in this atrocious position, he felt empathy for someone who was associated with such a monstrocity and wasn’t drawn to take part. He may not have been a proactive bystander, but maybe he had ulterior reasons and Ben understood. Ben loathed himself for being so understanding sometimes._

_As much as Ben kicked and struggled he was only able to to break free from Henry’s minions’ hold once, sending an fist directly to Belch’s jaw. Blood pooled in the corners of his mouth, and he lougied out a canine tooth that ricocheted off of Ben’s shoe._

_Ben’s head whacked to meet the side of a post with the aid of a palm, and Henry eagerly began to carve an ‘H’ into the side of his neck with a serrated blade. The knife cut deep and glided without friction across Ben’s flesh. Henry luckily wasn’t able to finish his full art piece._

_***POP*POP*POP*POP*** _

_Henry and his men instinctively crouched and guarded their heads from the familiar sound, releasing Ben._

_“Well it’s about time Mike," Ben half laughed._

_“Who the fuck do you think you are, on **my**  reserve, abusing my friend? Explain what’s going on right now or I’ll blow your fucking brains out right now in 3……2…….1…….”_

_“FUCKIN’ CHRIST OKAY HOLD ON,” Henry shrieked. He rounded his shoulders back and stood straight again, with hands raised. The other two poachers did the same._

_“We were jus’ trynna get acquainted mister,” the devious man to Henry’s left spoke with a vile smirk._

_Henry shoved him with extraordinary force, still unable to wipe the smugness from his face, “Shut the fuck up, Patrick. I’ll murd’ah ya.” Patrick only pushed the dark, greasy hair off his forehead so he could see more clearly._

_He attempted reasoning, “Listen, we need to get through to hunt. We been put to uh job and have shit ta’do. We don’ want to be on ya filthy property, or deal with ya snooty medics." They all peered at Ben, who was still resting his back against the wooden post with a hand pressed to his neck that dripped fresh blood._

_“Sorry to inform you, but hunting isn’t permitted on these grounds. Go elsewhere to rape their land,” while still pointing his gun._

_Henry took a few bold steps forward, “Listen you Monkey, I can go wherever I want and there ain’t nothin’ you can do-”_

_***POP*** _

_“YOWWWWWW,” Henry cried._

_Mike angled his shot so that the bullet grazed Henry’s left arm, and nothing more. He was a good shot._

_“Leave. Now”_

_“L’ES GO GO GO, Jesus!”, and Henry along with his two minions retreated back to the boat where Vic was desperately waiting to leave. Henry clutched his now bleeding arm on his sprint down the stairs, leaving crimson droplets in his wake._

_Ben now had an elated smile even though his neck and shirt were drenched with blood and screamed, “Rot in hell, BOWERS!”_

_The boat fired down the river, disappearing into the jungle mist._

* * *

 A collective sigh anthropomorphized as a ponderous cumulonimbus that loomed over the panga. Some mingling was exchanged, but there was an underlying shift of lost comfortability. Ben did not participate in any further interaction for the remainder of the boat ride, instead tilting his head over the side of the boat to look at his reflection. Analyzing the unwanted scar on his neck was a subconscious fist to the gut, but he continued to do so anyway. Having converged with the people on the boat with him for only a few short hours, he felt an intuitive pull that he would befriend this lot. And felt an inclination to protect them. He silently prayed they would not have to face a gruesome experience at the claws of Henry Bowers as he had. If another occasion arose where apprehension needed to be faced with violence, Ben knew he’d be ready to brawl.

Rounding the next curve of the river, Jairo cut the engine and pulled out two large oars and threw one to the other side of the boat to Mike. He snatched the oar out of the air, and they both began to maneuver the panga on either side in an oppositely synchronized paddling motion to dock. It drifted perfectly aligned on its left side to the wooden platform, and both Mike and Jairo stepped off to begin unloading baggage, equipment, and taking the hands of those that needed assistance to step off. Once standing in the tilting boat with the raging current, Richie’s legs became newborn giraffe legs and he definitely needed Mike’s stabilizing hand (and Eddie’s spotting from the back) to step off the boat. On either side of the dock, there were two towering posts that had human skulls atop each one.

“Uhhhhh Mike what’s the deal with the skulls at the top of the posts…?” Eddie asked with narrowing eyes.

He chuckled and explained, “Hundred of years ago when European explorers first began to travel to the jungle, they had never really seen anything like it. Some caught malaria, some were bitten by venomous animals, some were swept away by the strong storm surges, and some cannibalized by natives. So many didn’t return on their voyages home that they nicknamed the Amazon the ‘ _Canopy of Death_ ’.” He clapped a hand to Jairo’s shoulder. Jairo silently laughed, looking as if he’s heard this story one too many times.

“When I first scouted here to build the station, I found these two skulls in the forest and thought it’d be a funny addition to the place," bringing his hands up to his face and wiggling his fingers singing a spooky ‘OOooOOOooo’.

“That’s fuckin’ gnarly Mikey, I love it!” Richie gawked. Eddie’s face was swept with mild horror, and he gripped his fanny pack instinctively.

Stan leaned over to Richie, “Good I’m glad you like them Rich, because see that other post up there?” motioning to another post at the top of the staircase.

“I’m going to put your skull right there. It will make a sublime doorbell," Stan deadpanned.

“As long as it’s bedazzled Staniel, I don’t give a fuck."

The research team was led up the creaky, algae embedded stairs to reach the hump of the cliff where they were finally able to glimpse the untamed rainforest with virgin eyes. Reverential astonishment flooded Bill, Bev, Stan, Eddie, and Richie. Dr. Tozier may have been good at suppressing emotions for love interests, but never for the passion he felt for his work. Here he wanted to cry, and the characteristic motormouth was seized for words. His sapphire orbs welled with moisture, and delicate tears involuntarily descended to contour the outline of his prominently sharp zygomatic arches.

Each felt isolated in their human vessels and overcome with appreciation, tears threatening Eddie, Stan, Bev, and Bill as well.  

 _I wish I could have brought my mother here_ , Richie thought.

Maggie Tozier had an undying love for the Earth, and was a gifted florist. Although it has not been statistically proven that personal preferences can be genetically heritable, it was debatable with Maggie and Richie. The one attribute that they related to each other on was an interest in the natural world. After school a few times a week (from elementary to high school), Richie would ride his bike to his mother’s herbarium and watch as she put elaborate bouquets together with artistic precision. He admired the way her hands would string perianths of different kinds into beautiful pieces of art. Richie’s brilliance was not to be unexpected at birth, both parents were exceptionally bright. Mrs. Tozier may not have obtained a Ph.D, but she sure could have with her ability to rapidly absorb information and learn. As she worked, she would rant about botanical trivia: what distinguished what flower from the other, if they were polymorphic, toxic, palatable, and sometimes the evolution of how they came to be. Richie cherished the time he listened to his mother in the herbarium, and knew she would have esteemed to view what he was seeing currently.

Her death was an accident. Along with Richie she battled with severe anxiety, but unlike himself she gulped a repertoire of prescriptions to cope. One night in the last year of his master’s program, she never awoke.

One of the tears he shed now was from his own inundation, the other tear on his cheek was hers.

This place embodied the real life planet of Pandora from James Cameron’s  _Avatar_. Greenery encapsulated every orifice of their view, and multiple kinds of pollen scattered through the atmosphere in between swirls of wind. Lianas grew from the soil and entangled their girth around neighboring perennials that towered over the inferior foliage, buttress roots spurted and waved, native orchids and blooming bromeliads sprouted off of tree limbs, cylindrical vines plummeted to strangle victimed bark. Mating calls from animals of all kinds screamed across the basin. Pungent scents wafted about between fruity honeysuckle and earthy angiospermophytic release. The air was fresh, crisp. And yet it nurtured ancient, secreted whispers that only spending time here could reveal.

It was mystical. The forest made you feel small, and ignorant. The inhabitants here may be hundreds of years old, and witnessed more of life’s injustices than three humans may have in a lifetime.

Composing themselves, they all began to follow Mike, Ben, and Jairo who were leagues ahead. In a staggered line, they followed by carefully stepping onto raised wooden steps to protect their rainboots from sinking into deep mud. Stan performed little hops to ensure he would land on these steps instead of the adjacent indeterminate depth of mud.

After hiking through these steps for about 50 meters they approached a large deck with an enormous straw gazebo shading the apparent mess hall. There was an array of tables and chairs in sight, as well as a vast kitchen behind a bamboo barrier. Their luggage was in the process of being accordingly placed into their assigned canvas tents by the staff, retrieving the rest of their belongings from the boat that they had not already snatched.

Mike held a scraggly piece of paper in his hand, “Alrighty gang, here’s the list of sleeping arrangements for your time with us:

 **Tent 1:**  Dr. Richard Tozier

 **Tent 2:**  Dr. Stanley Uris, Beverly Marsh  

 **Tent 3:**  Edward Kaspbrack, William Denbrough."

“Did you have to use our full names,  _Michael_?” Eddie groaned. The others shrugged in agreeance with Eddie’s complaint. Bill hadn’t heard his full name spoken in ages.

“So sorry  _Eddie-san_ , my mistake," Mike apologized with a bow, but the mischievous glint across his facade spoke volumes that he did this on purpose and for his own amusement. Richie snorted, and Eddie poked him hard in the side.

He continued, “Your stuff should be in your tents any minute, and you can go check out your bearings shortly. Laundry will be collected every Monday, and meals with be prepared at 7 AM, 12:30 PM, and 7 PM. Be there or be hungry. Ben’s tent will be next to my hut next to the lab if you ever need us. Richie, your lab equipment is being set up in our laboratory facilities right now as well, but I would check it out just to make sure it’s as you please. And there are walkways you can follow with signs that lead you in the right direction to your tents that way,” pointing to a narrow, cobbled path on the opposite side of the mess hall.  

Bev pinched Richie’s spine and giggled excitedly.

“ _Frick_  you guys, quit prodding me," Richie quietly hissed. Bev and Eddie sniggered and bumped knuckles. Richie heard the contact of their fists (mainly due to rings on Eddie’s finger and Bev’s finger colliding), and couldn’t stop himself from forming a smirk. The thought of Beverly and Eddie vibing made his heart stammer.  

* * *

[Wednesday, February 28, 2018]

The daylight hours were spent quite uneventfully, with everyone individually exploring and getting acquainted with their surroundings: Bill didn’t make it farther than outside the rim of the mess hall gazebo in analyzing the ground flora, Ben and Mike read on their bench overlooking the river, Beverly made friends with the facility cooks and learned how to knead traditional Ecuadorian bread, Stan secluded himself outside his and Bev’s tent with his Amazonian avian field guild, Eddie systematically unloaded all of his cameras and technological equipment into anti humidifiers, and Richie went on a hike. He could personalize his tent later with the maps and posters he brought; he was too energized to be cramped inside a living space right now. The only objects he brought with him on his hike were his ‘Rite in the Rain’ sketchbook and a stubby graphite pencil.

Eddie became impatient to take a few pictures with his new waterproofed Canon camera, and coincidentally set himself along the same path as Richie. He captured pictures of the equatorial sun peeking through the thick canopy, orb weavers restoring their damaged webs, and even a viper disguised as a woody stock awaiting it’s unfortunate prey. Within an hour, he’d snapped more diverse pictures here than a lifetime of scenery in New York. The hundreds of dandelion infested hills in the outskirts of Queens (even though the sunsets were pleasant) would never closely compare to the exoticness of what he immortalized now.

It started to drizzle, but Eddie gave little notice to the falling water droplets. He trudged up a relatively steep hill along his chosen path and once his head graced the top he abruptly halted in his tracks, noticing a thin string of smoke rise. Richie was unabashedly sitting on the ground with criss-crossed legs in the mud sketching in a small notepad with a cigarette pursed between his lips. Yards in front of Richie there was a lone collared peccary munching on fallen fruits, and Eddie shortened his breaths out of fear that the pig would hear him, and worse, Richie would notice he was there observing. He continued to watch though.

 _I could have guessed he was a lefty._  

Eddie watched from behind Richie, as he sketched the animal feeding. He noticed Richie’s  sketches were _incredible_ , with messy cursive notes scribbled in the margins. Under his breath it could be made out vaguely that he muttered “ _Pecari tajacu_ ”. Eddie knew it must have been some kind of Latin/science gibberish, but all he could imagine was a patronus being cast.

 _Hmmmmm, he’s kind of like da Vinci; scientific and artistic. That’s a rare combo. I wonder if he's gay like da Vinci too_ , with the last thought forcing him to muffle giggles into the crook of his arm. It was an honest curiosity, however. Eddie had spent a questionable amount of time daydreaming about holding Richie's hand again, debating if Richie had even given the gesture another thought. 

Richie most definitely had been. 

Without thinking, Eddie snapped a picture of Richie doodling. Eddie began to consider him just as much as a marvel as the rest of the environment. The flash unfortunately blared, and he ducked into the crevice of the hill with lightning speed.

Richie nonchalantly twisted his back after hearing a  ***CLICK*** , but after seeing no threat he dropped his suspicions and returned to his own agenda. The jungle was full of curious noises after all, and it may have been a diurnal beetle formulating the sound.

Eddie fucking booked it back to his tent, and ran into several arachnid produced webs on his way back.

* * *

[Wednesday, March 14, 2018]

Two weeks past. 

The lab had been properly set up by Richie and Beverly (with the help of Mr. Jack Daniels, that was put on a conjoined tab at the research station’s only bar), tents were settled with personal belongings, and meal times were respectively met by a majority of the members of the party; Richie was still working on his time management skills. It’s like the man couldn’t recall how to tell time until after his cigarette was ashed.

After days of self exploring through their new home and becoming decently comfortable, Richie wanted to finally fabricate a bonding activity. He was a sucker for spontaneous adventure, and he knew the exact place he wanted to take his colleagues after he had done some scouting. Proposing his idea that night at supper inevitably happened.

“Oi bruvs, ‘ow do ya feel aboot scootin’ doon wif me to a rock pool jus’ a bit in to da forest fo’ sum fun toonigh’?” Richie blabbered out of the blue in a Brittish Liverpool persona he would later deem as ‘Toodles’ (“ _Sorreh luv, it wasn’t me, ‘twas Toodles talkin’ to ya pretteh face_ ”). Everyone laughed at the painfully accurate accent, but held skeptical faces.

“Richie, shouldn’t we be getting to bed at a decent time? We have a lot of statistics to run tomorrow,” Stan pleaded with droopy eyelids.

Bev agreed, “Yeah Rich, we have plenty of time to fuck around when the sun is up, Stan is right."

“…..I’m in,” Eddie committed. Richie gleefully pursed his lips.

“N-n-not to be that g-guh-uy too, but there are a lot uh-uhf blooms at night I’d l-luh-ike to document. I’ll go-o-oh Richie," Bill nodded.

Stan’s demeanor immediately changed, and his body language was caffeinated by Bill’s siding with Eddie. Bill’s decision now had Stan on board with Richie’s frivolous escapade. Beverly adopted Stan’s change of heart and looked at Richie with reluctant reassurance. There was no way in hell she was going to be left behind if everyone else was going.

They agreed to meet at 9 PM outside of Richie’s tent. They had invited Mike and Ben as well, but they were exhausted and had seen the pool on countless occasions before so they promised they would join on later excursions.

The group of five each had headlamps mounted on their foreheads, backpacks with supplies, and knee reaching rain boots that would protect them from scavenging fire ants if they stood in one place for too long. Richie led them down a clouded path of vines and thorny branches needing careful avoidance, up until a moss engrossed clearing that narrowed with framing ferns.

Richie calmly reassured his friends over his shoulder, “We should be arriving soon m’lads, it’s worth it. Trust."

Ten minutes later Richie came to an unexpected pause in his gate, causing Eddie to bump into his back. Like a Disney villain, his shoulders slouched with his arms appropriating a raptorial pose. He swiveled on his heels and hissed, backing through the brush and holding it open for the line of nerds he’s somehow convinced to come on his nighttime feat. He felt an overwhelming grandeur of emotion that he might indirectly invite these humans as friends. He’d try not to get his hopes up though, learning a great deal from his past not to do so. But he’s hopeful.

The remaining four scrambled through the brush, and goggled at the enchanting body of water speckled with giant water lilies ( _Victoria amazonica_ , obviously) in front of them that was ascended by a cascading waterfall. Richie felt satisfied with their widened eyes and blurted, “Told ya, bitches."

Bev was the first to drop all her shit and run over to the edge of the pool and start stripping her clothes. Bill and Stan began to do the same after Bev’s influence, splashing into the pool’s dark void within a minute. However, Eddie’s body seized.

_I don’t have a swimsuit. Where’s the closest cliff I can jump off of and kill myself?_

“Did you guys all bring swimsuits…..?” Eddie asked hesitantly.

“Duh, we hiked to a pool shweetheart. Do you not have one?” Richie mused.

Eddie was deathly silent. He could have swam in his boxers, but there was a huge complication. Why he decided tonight of all nights not to wear underwear was a cruel coincidence, because hell, the more layers you had on in this fucking humidity the less comfortable you were and he didn’t even consider the fact that they might be swimming. Like an idiot.

 _I’m a fucking idiot. I forget my swim trunks, and now I don’t even have underwear to swim in. Oh well, here goes nothing_ , Eddie reasoned. So he decided to improvise.

“No, I don’t. I thought we were skinny dipping?” Eddie challenged with raised eyebrows.

There was an audible intake of breath from everyone surrounding the waterfall, and they snapped their necks towards Eddie. Richie choked a swallow, “You first  _princess_. We’ll follow.” His dick began to harden, and he crossed his legs in a feeble attempt to hide it.

_Holy fuck. Please take your clothes off._

Without hesitation Eddie chucked his Camelback to the side, and began to shed layers of clothing. He stumbled to the edge of the waterfall in just his shorts where there was an ameaturedly carved limestone staircase leading up to the top and glared at Richie over his shoulder.

“You next,  _my liege_. I’ll see ya at the top,” and he dropped his shorts. Eddie poisedly trotted up the staircase, ass naked.

As Richie stared at Eddie walking to the top of the waterfall, he was now commemorated as an eternal Greek deity embedded into Richie’s clockwork. His pulse beat arrhythmiatic, temperature inexplicably rose, and his heart fixed on one tanned soul venturing up a case of limestone stairs.

Treading water and inspired by Eddie, Bev unclasped her bathing suit top and untied her bottoms to throw them on land.

“I love this fuckin’ guy! I’m with ya Eddie!” she declared. Stan and Bill did the same, chucking their shorts out of the water.

Richie did not plan for this to happen. Not one fucking bit. But he was overjoyed to see the wavelet of impetuousness that Eddie’s boldness affected the night, and inserted himself into the shenanigans with haste.

Richie took all of his clothes off and tossed them on a rock with the rest of his belongings; his glasses folded gingerly on top. He only brought one pair, and if he destroyed them he would be bound to contacts. And he _hated_ his contacts. He cavorted to the top of the stairs to meet Eddie, who was standing with his hands on his hips, anticipating the biologist’s arrival.

“Jump with me?” a bare Eddie asked as he held out his hand.

Richie coughed back a lump in his throat before answering, feeling uncharacteristically self conscious in the presence of Eddie, who didn’t seem bothered whatsoever by being vulnerably naked in explicit night light. Richie failed miserably at not raking his eyes over Eddie’s body.

“Why else would I be up here?” Richie smirked with regained confidence and delightfully took his hand.

Richie and Eddie approached the edge together and wearily counted aloud, “1…..2……3!”

They jumped, expelling euphoric screams.

Crashing into the shock of the pool’s swathe, a small tsunami of star glazed water rippled out to touch the shore of exotic pebbles and they plunged deep below the surface. The moonlight penetrated the silver pool in an illuminating spotlight, making Eddie and Richie appear as two angelically submerged water spirits from above. With hands still clasped, they kicked their feet after brushing the igneous bottom. Eddie squirmed at the feeling of his toes meeting viscid moss clinging to the volcanic floor, but invited the new sensation as well. This trip served to invite new everything, and Richie’s hand was a lovely distraction that pulled him to the surface.     

Their heads breached the break of water, accessing gulps of oxygen hungrily just inches away from each other’s mouths. Soaked curls flattened over the front of their foreheads and steam emanated from their pores. Richie watched as a water droplet dripped down the center of Eddie’s bottom lip to rejoin the pool’s mass.

Eddie had never seen Richie without his glasses before. He was gawky, and uniquely stunning. Freckles spattered his face, and his toothy grin could save the world.

Constellations danced across the wet surface on this rarity of a night with sky clarity, and water fell unmercifully from the rocks above, birthing consistent waves. A timed breeze shook blooms from a monkey brush vine to float across the surface of the pool. Richie would have easily identified this species as  _Combretum rotundifolium_ if he didn’t have better things to attend to.

Eddie absentmindedly wrapped his legs around Richie, and they tumbled above and below the water attempting to coincide with the pool’s tidal chaos. Both choked on gulps of water as they surfaced due to laughter each and every time.

It’s as if they forgot they were completely naked. They held each other intimately close with Richie’s left hand grappled around Eddie’s lower back and right arm supporting his ass, and they swirled to a cosmic beat; bodies humming. Although outwardly bare and vulnerable Eddie felt nothing but security in the arms of Richie’s prowess, and Richie believed he was made to hold Eddie in his outstretched arms. He wanted to keep Eddie there until world’s end, suspended in time.

After exiting the pool, Bev and Stan stood barren gawking at them. Richie and Eddie were entrancingly blissful, and carefree. If their onlookers hadn’t been so observant, they would have missed their lips accidentally brushing in between laughs. But, they noticed. Their staggered breaths could be observed miles away with the intense humidity in the air. Their bodies were pressed against one another, and slid gracefully between swimming shifts. They were undeniably made for each other, composed of the same stardust from a primordial imploding star, being kindred soulmates whom had just found each other once again by universal fate. 

Eddie may not have been a smoker, but the scene set itself as if he was inhaling Richie’s heated plumes; all of his angst, his pain, his pot of boiling bluntness that might eventually shoot him to hell, and below.

  
And Eddie knew he would delve below the surface with him, if need be.

They escaped the pool’s aphrodisiac trance, and clothed themselves once more before the next downpour was soon to arrive. Under the moon’s watchful eye, she placed her lunar spell on her favorite contenders and awaited her unveiled pièce de résistance. Richie and Eddie from across the liquid mirror stole a yearning peek, and were blitzed by an otherworldly torrent.

They were unconditionally, and irrevocably in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully I got all of your panties in a bunch with the Reddie feels, because I got myself fucking emotional writing it. Let me know your thoughts n’ shit, I love it!


	5. A Doctor's Lacrimosa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT’S FINALLY HERE, I’M SORRY THIS TOOK SO FUCKING LONG. A lot has been going on in my life, what a busy summer its been rip me. Thank you for being patient and checking in with me, I love you all and I hope it was worth the wait. Also the part about the tarantula is completely true, I still miss him. SO this is now my primary project until it’s finished, so buckle your fucking seat belts nerds. Let’s go.

[Tuesday, March 20, 2018]

Using the back of his hand to wipe away the remnants of sleep from his eyes, Richie sprawled on his bed and stared at the ceiling of his draped tent. The beige folds perfectly met at the top around a pole that descended to the floor, where wooden panels extended to the circumference of the tent. The wooden floors weren’t luxurious by any means, not varnished or sanded, but he was grateful he wouldn’t have to tip-toe across muddied goop in his own quarters. He massaged his temples and scanned the room, pleased with the decorating he had done the day before to make it feel like his own; he needed this safe space, especially at times when anxiousness overruled and his focus was bound to be lost to unruly chemicals.

He had hung a variety of posters with safety pins to the canvas walls that reflected some of his interests: Pink Floyd’s _The Wall_ album cover, a printed version of Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_ , a signed Van Halen poster by none other than Eddie Van Halen himself, concept art for World of Warcraft’s _Lich King_ installment, even a Hail Sagan poster (the word play between Sagan and Satan made him snigger, and boy did he have an overwhelming admiration for the scientist). He’s a huge fucking nerd, it’s ingrained in every fiber of his slinky body. And damn was he proud of it.

There was a conglomerate of pictures attached at random places on the walls and clipped to furniture: pictures from when he and Stan were younger (one of his favorites being him giddily laying across Stan’s lap on the grass at the age of thirteen, with Stan holding a poetry book above his face while smirking at Richie), pictures of himself and his parents at his college graduation after achieving his bachelor’s degree, pictures he took of plants on hikes, as well as a picture of Bev and him trashed at a staff party (Bev with a traffic cone on her head, and Richie drunkenly straddling a taxidermied mountain lion). Those were just a few examples, other memories plastered themselves to surfaces without any particular design. There wasn’t a strong signal for internet service out in the middle of nowhere, and Richie wanted to ensure he had tangible moments of happiness that he could return to when needed.

A record player was set up on the only desk provided for his room, open and awaiting a tune to play. Possibly a song from 1970’s past, perhaps a classical piece from Mozart or Chopin. The music regurgitating instrument was ready for any of Richie’s current moods and to indulge him. And yes, Richie brought his record player, and to the jungle of all places. They didn’t call him Richie “Records” Tozier for nothing.

Slinging his legs over the side of the bed, he stretched out his limbs and took measured breaths to properly wake himself up. As tired as his body pleaded him to rest the preceding night, his mind disobeyed by racing (arguably) faster than the USS Enterprise during warp speed. Eddie gracing every thought.

Sometimes he cursed his photographic memory. As helpful as it was for his studies and for cavorting through life in general, he replayed swimming with the photographer over and over like a lucid dream, until his mind couldn’t bust itself any further, and eventually caved to a restless sleep. He remembered Eddie’s tanned skin was soft in appearance and touch, chestnut hair was drenched to frame his face, arms were clasped behind his own dark curls to grapple, head thrown back for shared moments of laughter, and _those eyes_. When those ethereal eyes locked to Richie, the surrounding world would never be of justifiable comparison.

They were a hazel storybook that just needed a key to unlock.

The feeling that settled in his gut was vaguely familiar, but _never_ to this intensity. And honestly? It scared him. Facing his feelings was never an easy task— and never would be. Love to him often ended in disappointment, distrust, and building malice. His brain told him no, _absolutely not you fucker don’t be stupid_ , to close himself off from emotion for Eddie and expend his energy on the work he was here to accomplish. But his heart told him yes, _why not do both Richie_.

He lifted himself from the sheets and his head spun from sitting up too fast, but after it passed, he regained eyesight from the white blindness his brain had rudely clouded him with.

 _In, and out, in and out, in, out, 1 2 3, 4 5 6, 7 8 9, 8 7 6, 5 4 3, 2 1 0,_ he recited in his head as his therapist many years ago had taught him to do so.

He needed to breathe, _in and out_ , to keep his nerves at bay.

Looking at his hands that death-gripped his thighs, they were buzzing and clammy with chilled sweat. If over analyzing his feelings were to be the reason for an anxiety attack today, he would have wanted to strangle himself. Then choke himself again over the absurdity.

The sun had barely broken the horizon where the temperature was delightfully cool, but brooding breezes snuck into his tent. It was nevertheless a gem of a day to accomplish some field and lab work, so the unusual nippiness was welcomed. A true gift from the suffocating heat of the last few days.

Dragging his barren feet across the room, he retrieved a record from his upright drybox where valuables that needed safekeeping from the overbearing humidity were kept. His worn checkered pajama bottoms hung loosely on his hips, and threatened to fall completely down if he didn’t shimmy them up every few steps. This morning’s mood? Guitar serenades by the riff prophet Jimi Hendrix. He didn’t even need his glasses to direct the record player’s needle to the 15th ring inward, he knew _Purple Haze_ would begin at that exact indent which he could blindly feel for.

_Purple haze all in my brain_

_Lately things just don't seem the same_

_Acting funny, but I don't know why_

_Excuse me while I kiss the sky_

 

_Purple haze all around_

_Don't know if I'm coming up or down_

_Am I happy or in misery?_

_Whatever it is, that girl put a spell on me_

 

If there was anything Richie was heavily educated on besides science oriented subjects, it was classic music choices thanks to Wentworth Tozier; classic music as in classic rock, and classical compositions, of course. Pink Floyd, The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Van Halen, Jimi Hendrix, AC/DC, The Who, and Janis Joplin songs were more of a religion to him than anything culturally conventional. Additionally, baroque and gothic periods were listened to and appreciated, but pieces from romanticism's peak were favored. While his parents found it difficult to fully understand their son, they were able to connect through individualized aspects over time: Maggie, with botany.

Went, with music.

* * *

_[Sunday, December 16, 2007]_

_Dr. Wentworth Tozier pushed his spectacles up the oily bridge of his nose before they would’ve tumbled to the ground. This was his private time, a time to take a break from dentistry obligations and envelop himself in simplistic secluded hobby. He placed focused hands that held tweezers towards an almost complete replica of the Mayflower ship, with only the anchor and chain needing attachment._

_“One more… piece. Ahhhhh steady now, stead-”_

_“POPS!”, Richie barked while barging through the garage door._

  _Went dropped his utensils, displaced from his concentrated trance. He wanted to yell, scold, reprimand with authoritative words, but he didn’t. The doctor never wanted to be the parent that his father was to him. Went took the unfortunate lessons his father indirectly taught him to be a better parent. Richie was his only child, and how could he as a father be upset with his son wanting his attention? Thus, he took a deep breath before turning to Richie with a kind face._

_“Yes, Rich?”_

_“I wanted to show you what Mags gave me”, Richie requested shyly after witnessing what he had interrupted. Went of course knew what he was about to show him, he had gone shopping with his wife to buy it, but he decided to play along anyway._

_“Son, she’s your mother. Call her mom for once, yes?”, he chuckled._

_“But Mags is so much more personal”, Richie cheesed with a pinched grin._

_“Don’t you think mom is more personal?”_

_“But, but think about it, I’m expected to call her mom. Calling her Mags was my own choice, that’s as personal as it gets don’cha think?”_

_“Richie, you call me Pops. Literally a synonym for dad.”_

_“Yeah, but it’s not dad, or ‘fahtha’ like they do in Britain. You’re just as special Pops, you’re my Pops.”_

_“Do you call anyone by their correct name?”, Went teased._

_“No! And I learned from the best. Isn’t my name Richard?”, Richie quipped with raised eyebrows._

_Went thought it over, impressed by his young boy’s wit, and nodded._

_“I guess you did learn from the best. Now what do you have to show me?”_

_Scurrying over to his father’s work bench, he handed over a sketchbook that had ‘Veni Vidi Vici’ scripted across the binder in cursive. His father flipped it over, brushed the underside of any lingering material, then turned it rightside up to view the cover again. His wife outdid herself with this spontaneous gift for their son._

_“She said she doesn’t want me doodling on the walls of my closet anymore”, Richie jubilantly informed._

_Maggie cautiously approached the garage doorway from the backyard, and hid behind the frame to avoid Richie being aware of her presence. She sent a wink to Wentworth._

_“Well you know your how your moth-, Mags, likes a clean wall. As do I. So, do you like it?”, Went beamed, seeing Maggie from his peripheral vision spying._

_“Are you joshin’ me? I fuckin’ lov-”_

_“Language, c’mon now.”_

_“Sorry, sorry. But yeah, you bet your ass I’m going to take it everywhere with me.”_

_Went facepalmed and didn’t even bother to correct him for language a second time. No ill harm had been intended, and he internally battled with laughing at the remark. There was no fighting a smile, however._

_“I’m glad you like it. And Richie, I have another gift for you.”_

_Richie’s eyes went wide behind his thick framed glasses. His father wasn’t a very skilled gift giver (Maggie usually the one to select the gifts for birthdays and holidays and such), but when he did give a present, it was well thought out and held a package of meaning. Some of the meaning of his gifts, Richie would not entirely grasp until he was of older age._

_Went was slim, and maneuvered himself between his dusted 1970 Camaro and the desk towards the back of the garage with Richie easily following. Went’s highschool ride had been out of commission for years due to technical difficulties, but he dreamed it would purr again one day; he just needed someone knowledgeable to fix it, and for a decent price. Maybe one day when he had time to look into it._

_Placing his hand on top of a hidden object covered by a sheet, Went pulled the fabric to free the treasure. A record player._

_“This was my father’s Rich, your grandad’s—errr for you, I should I say grandpops. I want you to have it, as well as all the vinyls. Remember all the music I’ve shown you?”_

_“Let Zepp? Pink Fland? Mozarre? Duh, I remember. They’re my favorites!”_

_“Ummm— close. We’ll work on it, but you like it?” Went asked hopefully._

_Richie ran his hand over the wood surface with appreciation, “Indubitably, Pops."_

_“Fuck, what era are you fro-”_

_“Hey you SWORE-”_

_“My bad, I must be a poor example," Went granted._

_They smiled affectionately at one another, and Went sifted through the collection of records to pick out specific ones he favored. Richie absorbed every bit of information as his father spoke._

_Maggie ran her fingers through her black hair, and cherished the genuine moment between the two loves of her life: her husband and her son. What she would do to have that feeling of gratitude last for infinity._

* * *

Next to the record player, a leatherbound sketchbook laid. The pages were filled with notes, drawings, and nonsensical plans from Richie’s past; even the margins. It hadn’t been scribbled in for years, but here it was, brought along to the Amazon, observing Richie’s every move as his mother would have.

The phrase ‘Veni Vidi Vidi’ was scratched on top of the sketchbook, as well as his skin.

Richie picked up the book and smiled at it fondly, a hand grazing heavy fingertips over the proverb imprinted on its cover. His eyes were solemn, but loving.

“For you Mags," he mumbled to himself.

Repeating his breathing exercises aloud this time for added emphasis, he picked through his luggage to find the outfit he wanted to wear today. There was going to be a serious amount of field scouring today, so he decided on an outfit that needed function and comfort. An old Beatles shirt, Columbia cargo shorts, knee high socks with the Kraken on them within his rainboots, and half of his curls twisted into a bun at the back of his head with the rest hanging down would do. Functional, but this was a fashion disaster.

With a section of hair placed into a bun, a prominent silver streak ran across the right side of his head. This was a recessive family trait from his father's side, with Went sporting the same silver steak. They resembled each other indisputably; no one ever questioned if Richie was Wentworth's son, it was clear as day. 

Jimi Hendrix’s musing voice rang far beyond Richie’s tent, with the humidity carrying every chord for others to hear. The music wasn’t obnoxiously loud, but the rumbling of electric guitar made some people shuffle in their beds this early in the morning. Both Stan and Eddie were both light sleepers, and definitely were ones to mentally acknowledge the shift in noise from rainforest chirps to vintage music. Stan was well aware that this would be the normality of the trip, and closed his eyes once more to rest another hour before breakfast.

However, Eddie chose to investigate. Without causing too much of a stir, he dressed quietly as to not wake Bill, although there was little chance he would’ve ever awaken Bill. That man snored through earthquakes and was only woken by a screaming alarm clock placed directly next to his ear. And if he was drunk the night before? Bill would need that screaming clock as well as another person aggressively pouring water on his face.

Inserting a fresh memory card into his camera, Eddie crept out of the tent and into the dew. He hadn’t bothered to wake up this early since their arrival, but regretted not doing so after soaking in the mist for the first time. A languid calmness trickled about in the morning hours, predictably overlooked during the chaotically busy rushes of the afternoon and evening.

With the camera slung over his head, he traced the source of the music. It wasn’t music he grew up on and listened to in his leisure time, but he enjoyed its melody nonetheless. The song was rock n’ roll for sure, but by whom he had no idea. By placing calculated steps on the raised wooden planks of the path to not dirty himself, he listened and followed where his feet took him. They led him to the front of Richie Tozier’s tent.

A laminated sign on the front of the tent read in bold, curled letters: 

 

**_Ut faciam stellas_ **

**_Ego tum via ire_ **

**_A solis diem_ **

 

Eddie knew this was Latin, but had little knowings as to what it meant. Instead of fixating on the sign, he pressed his ear to the outside of the tent.

 _Must be Richie’s tent, and is that… is that coming from a record player? Holy shit this man is so extra_ , Eddie deciphered.

But, the eclecticism of Dr. Tozier did in fact enthrall him and make him want to know more. There were deeper facets in the winding grooves of his brain that Eddie aspired to explore. Comical in nature, but harbouring a pain behind dark features on a pale canvas.

A large, reflective butterfly fluttered inches from his face and settled on a fern yards away from him. Fragile appendages circled the rest of its body so that it was right side up and could bask comfortably, and wings switchingly batted from laying flat to coming vertically center every few seconds fluidly. Just enough time in between rotations to snap a picture.

Eddie held his breath and tip-toed over to the frond, to then lower to his haunches for a better angle. Luckily, the insect continued its ritual unphased by his presence.

***CLICK***

A few seconds for the butterfly to reposition wings.

***CLICK*CLICK*CLICK***

He silently opened a side panel of his camera to review the photos he had just taken to make sure they were just right, because if not, he needed to take more while the opportunity was right in front of him. Literally right in front of him.

The first one, too blurry. The second one, the lighting too dark. But the third one, the third one was perfection.

 _Hey Ansel Adams if you were alive and all, I’d be giving you a run for your money_ , Eddie sniggered to himself with accomplishment.

He knew this would be a capture his boss would praise him for, and would proudly condone plastering it among wrapped text in the review article that would be written after his return. Eddie loved his job, loved his hobby that he was lucky enough to make a career out of, and loved his boss. Not many people could say the same for the lives they led.

“ _Morpho menelaus."_

Eddie dropped his camera in a frightened spasm that forced his neck down from the attached strap, making him lose his balance. He toppled face first into the frond that hosted the butterfly, smacking his nose into the soil. She promptly flew away, disappearing into the forest.

“Who the-, fuck, _ouch,_ ” Eddie massaged his nose as he regained his footing.

“She was beautiful, Spaghetti Man. That’s the first one I’ve seen, you really have an eye.”

“ _Asshole_ , you scared me.”

“Sorry, sorry I couldn’t help myself! It was cute to see you smiling through your camera at a Blue Morpho. What was I supposed to do, ignore that? And plus, I’ve been looking for that butterfly for days, Kaspbrak. They’re one of the reasons I’m actually here," Richie countered.

Eddie got to his feet and faced Richie with a creeping smile, “Yeah, well, you’re lucky I got the shot.”

“That’s why I waited. That third one was spectacular, Eds.”

Eddie blinked questioningly, but sprouted an involuntary blush at the compliment. Richie had a keen eye, he didn’t seem to miss anything.

“Thanks, Richie. Uh, wanna see it?”

Richie nodded his head vigorously and pressed his shoulder to Eddie for a closer look. The sudden contact made Eddie’s sides heat, but he ignored it to pull up the picture for Richie’s viewing.

“Look at that, you are talented aren’t ya,” and he was so close Richie breathed into the waves cradling Eddie’s features. Normally, Eddie would have felt this to be an invasion of space by a somewhat stranger. But this felt right, comfortable even. He couldn’t place why, but Richie’s touch was familiar, as if it was recognized from another lifetime.  

“I just do what I love…. and obviously, so do you. You seem to know the scientific names of every damn thing we see,” Eddie admitted as they continued to scroll through more of his pictures. Richie slung the arm that was previously pressed to Eddie around his shoulders, and gripped the smaller man’s bicep.

“Every time I would read one that I liked, I just memorized it. And _fuck_ , I liked all of them. I shall call you….hmmm…. _Homo sapiens edsghetti;_ the newest discovery of human subspecies by modern science,” he smirked and lifted an outwardly open palm to trace across his and Eddie’s body.

“Well here’s one more to memorize: _Homo sapiens trashmouth_.”

“That’s improper Latin, my love,” Richie jested.

“Since you know Latin so fluently then please explain to me, Doctor Dickhead, what does the sign on your tent mea-”

Eddie had forgotten the timeline of the photos he had taken, and unfortunately cued up one of the unsuspecting pictures of Richie sketching the peccary. Violently slamming the power button, he dropped the camera so it hung around his neck again. His face heated into a shade of crimson.

“Oh my fucking God, was tha-”

“No. _No,_ it’s not what you thi-”

“ _Liar_ , that was totally me, give me your camer-” Richie begged while grabbing for the camera without consent.

“It absolutely was _not_ , don’t flatter yoursel-”

“I fuckin _knew_ I heard something clic-”

“God damnit Richie, _seriously_ , c’mo-” Eddie not so seriously petitioned, in between giggles.

Reaching for the camera with one hand, he tasked the other arm with deflecting Eddie’s fighting swings. Eddie may have been short, almost a foot shorter than Richie, but he was much stronger and wrestled both of them to the ground in hopes of keeping those pictures a secret.  

“Show me the pics, _show papa the pics!_ ”

Richie’s significantly longer arms slipped the strap over Eddie’s head to successfully attain the device. Using his body weight to lay his back on top of Eddie’s chest to keep him harnessed, he pushed the power button and viewed a picture of himself smoking a cigarette and doodling in one of his sketchbooks, legs criss-crossed on the floor.

Richie was the one to blush this time. He actually really liked, more like loved, this picture of himself. He had never seen what he looked like entranced in his work.

Borderline panicked, Eddie intervened, “ _Listen_ I wasn’t spying, I just happened to be walk-”

“I love it, Eddie. Scratch that— _ssp. edsghetti._ You should uh, make me your model more often.”

Eddie smacked the back of Richie’s head from under him, “Only if you do it for free, I don’t pay my models.”

“Consider it an agreement, how can I deny you the pleasure of photographing this exquisite bod?”

“Where do I sign?” and Eddie smiled, holding up a pantomimed pen.

Richie chuckled and rolled off of the smaller man to then surrender the camera. They both sat up on the grass, and patted their clothes of any lingering moss particles.

He coughed into his fist and gripped the back of his neck before speaking, “The sign by the way, it’s uh, a haiku that I wrote.”

“Oh?”

“Yup,” where he put an added emphasizing pop on the ‘p’.

“Do explain Doctor,” Eddie flirtatiously inquired after clasping his hands in front of his chest.

_Fuck me, he really needs to stop it with that Doctor thing. I’m not trying to bust a nut untouched this early in the morning._

Richie shook his head and crossed his legs to regain focus. He took out a scrap piece of paper from his back pocket and snatched the pencil behind his ear, which had miraculously kept its place in his tied back curls after such feverous movement. He scribbled the Latin phrase on the left of the sheet, and the English translation on the right.

 

_Ut faciam stellas_

_Ego tum via ire_

_A solis diem_

 

_As the stars do_

_I go both ways_

_The suns a new day_

 

Eddie set his chin on Richie’s shoulder to read what he had written and it took a few moments of thought to grasp any interpretation; he hoped that it meant what he hoped, but instead of assembling a string of assumptions he patiently waited for Richie to elaborate.

“I made both the Latin and the English versions haikus, ya see. Five, seven, then five syllables. The English version even rhymes,” he rambled with intricacy and an underlying pride. The man was a genius, and yet maintained an admirably endearing humility.

“Cool wordplay, whats it mean?”

Richie twiddled his thumbs, and habitually performed tricks with the pencil. His subconscious controlled those absent minded motor skills, taught to relieve immediately sensed tension. Eddie could feel anxiety seep through the skin where his chin met Richie’s shoulder; there was a twitch of nerves, followed by ticks nursed by fiddling.

“Stars as we speak are imploding and reforming from the same material that they expired from. Maybe not quickly, but they do,” Richie bashfully smiled without looking at Eddie, instead watching the pencil skillfully twirl in his hand after years of practice.

His mind said no, but his heart said yes.

“And a ball of fire, for fuck’s sake, has no choice but to explode with another ball of fire if it's within the same orbit. The instability, the inevitable explosion, it would begin a new day just by law," he continued, this time shifting his gaze to Eddie’s.

Richie’s stormy eyes crystallized into glazed glaciers of thought. There were wars being fought behind his seemingly cool demeanor, and all in the matter of minutes. Flags for opposing thrones raised, they each fought valiantly, but one side bloodily arose in triumph.

“It’s the law. Obviously,” Eddie responded with an upturned smile.

Placing a wary hand on Eddie’s thigh, Richie began to thumb circles on his bare skin, encouraging goosebumps to prickle. Eddie didn’t flinch, didn’t retreat, he wasn’t even surprised by the gesture. He watched Richie’s hand soothingly weight his thigh, and he placed his own hand on top.

“Obviously,” Richie whispered, dropping the pencil.

Eddie shifted his focus from Richie’s eyes to his lips, instinctively biting the bottom of his own. Nervously moving his head forward, Richie yearned to shorten the gap between them. Closing his eyes, Eddie leaned in as well, between short breaths. They both wanted to seal their silent desire.

Their lips met, Eddie lifting a hand to contour Richie’s chiseled cheekbone. It was a short, gentle kiss that spoke a poetic sonnet of serenity. Tension relieved as their connection of flesh ensured a mutual fire. Eddie comfortably leaned the side of his head and body to the outside of Richie’s shoulder. The twitching anxiety previously felt from Richie’s being melting into a warm hum of vibrations.

* * *

Paramount birding hours were concurrent, so Stan decided to go for a walk with his binoculars and Neotropical Edition of Passerines. With his hair combed back under a khaki safari hat, shirt tucked in, satchel slung, he sauntered with a heightened awareness to the sounds above him. However, rustling on the ground behind some brush caught his attention instead.

He carefully pushed aside palm fronds, to fix his creeping gaze on the culprits.

“Interesting," Stan whispered to himself while his eyes analyzed Richie and Eddie. Their body language told Stan enough as to what was going on between the two of them, even if nothing hadn’t even explicitly happened. Stan watched Eddie snake an arm around Richie’s waist, and Richie rest his head on the side of Eddie’s where it was already pushed against his shoulder.

Richie was genuinely smitten, enveloped with Eddie’s presence and touch. An absolute blushing mess of warmth.

Stan knew that the case was usually flipped, with Richie being enjoyingly indifferent as the other swooned. But there was a reciprocal strike of lightning that welded their sides, and if Stan hadn’t known Richie so intimately long, it may have been neglected.

This was an insane behavioral vagary.

Richie treated himself as a guarded dam for love. And for the first time, it was noted that those concrete walls were collapsing.

Hiding completely behind the fronds, Stan took a hold of one of them and shook it to make his presence known, but not known enough to give away that he had been there for a few minutes. Eddie and Richie tensed and got to their feet quickly, putting quite a bit of distance between them.

Opening up his field guide to a random page (and with the book upside down in his panic to look normal), Stan pretended to be immersed in reading as he walked into the clearing, “Oh! Good morning guys, you’re up early.”

“The Man strolls about! Mornin’ baby cakes, looking for beaked feathered friends I assume?” Richie knowingly pondered. His pupils were blown from being caught off guard, and he pushed up his glasses.

“Mhm, you guessed right. I was heading to the bird lek about a half mile from here before breakfast.”

Eddie’s interest perked, “A bird lek! I read about those before I came, and if it’s not too much to ask, may I come along?”

A smile tugged on the corner of Stan’s dimpled mouth, shifting his eyes from Richie’s impressed expression back to Eddie’s, “Perhaps….. only if you’re _quiet_.”

Using his left hand to trace an ‘x’ over his chest, then panning it out to his side with his index and middle fingers crossed Eddie agreed, “Boy Scout's honor.”

Stan and Richie snorted.

Raising his right arm to create a ninety degree angle, Stan clenched his fist elongating his index, middle, and ring finger, “On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight. A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.”

Eddie’s eyes grew with embarrassed realization.

“He’s an Eagle Scout, Eds. Stanley Manly has every pretty patch in the book,” Richie endearingly informed. Richie would have made it through Boy Scouts with Stan if he would have actually followed directions as a child. But no, he got kicked out.

On a camping trip to Cobscook Bay State Park that was supposed to bond the troop, teenage Richie brought along a pack of cigarettes and flask of ancient whiskey, wafting them around like winning lottery tickets. His parents had to make the long drive from Derry to retrieve their son, whom later grounded him for a month after his expulsion.

At the time Richie coped by telling himself, _Those elitist assholes were looking for a reason to throw me out anyway. Everyone knows they’re against being even kinda gay. Suck my dick._

Stan glinted with pride and closed his book, “You’re damn right I do. And Richie, I assume you’re coming too since Eddie’s coming, ya?”

Richie flusteredly straightened his posture, “Hey now, I’m coming to make sure you don’t get lost. There are vicious tigers out here ya know, hungry for Stanley flesh.”

“We both know you know there aren’t tigers out here,” Stan replied with a mischievous smirk.

“We’re wasting time, the clocks a tickin’ and its almost their feeding time!” Richie replied whilst tapping his wristwatch and scooted himself down the path towards the lek.

“Says the man who can’t be on time anywhere,” Stan retorted to Eddie, then hastily followed Richie’s flurried departure.

They walked in a line on the path, becoming more obscure the farther they strayed from the hub of the research station. The mud became deeper, trail more blurred, and the only indications that they were actually on the path were tattered pink flags tied to the trunks of trees. The sun rose higher from the horizon, but under the canopy, midnight drenched the floor leagues below. Richie led the way, and gratefully so, because his face became close acquaintance with arachnid webs that you couldn’t see until you walked right through them. He would flinch, but then curiously look for the Queen that spun the mandala. He may have feared emotional intimacy, but never the wandering beasts of the Earth. They were tangible, predictable, easier to understand than the simmering stew of what dwelled in the mind and heart.

Orb weavers that spun webs were all female, and even if he couldn’t find them, he would apologize and wish her good fortune in constructing a new death trap. He had located one however, and compassionately picked her up and placed her on the tattoo on his forearm. She laid flat on the center of his Tree of Life, the green and yellow blotches making an artistic contrast to the black linework. Eddie squealed, because holy shit this spider was fucking _huge_ and with protruding spikes on its back, yes _spikes_ , but there was no denying that the spider was exotically beautiful. Just like Richie.

“IS THAT THING POISONOUS, JESUS CHRIST,” Eddie yelped as Richie shoved his arm closer to Eddie.

“That _thing_ is a spiny orb-weaver. And calm down she’s _venomous_ , not _poisonous,_ ” Richie grinned with the malicious intent of a shark.

Eddie yanked Stan so that he was standing between himself and Richie, peeking from behind Stan’s sloped shoulder.

“Yeah and about as venomous as a bee sting,” Stan reassured.

Putting himself in front of Stan once more, Eddie whipped out his camera, “Well now that I know it won-”

“ _She_ ,” Richie snarkily corrected.

Eddie rolled his eyes, “Now that I know _she_ won’t murder me, I’m going to take a picture, so hold still.”

***CLICK*CLICK***

Steadying his lense, he adjusted his last shot so that the spider would be in focus. The last few shots were focused on Richie’s tattoo and the vascularized veins that bulged from his skin. Eddie did this on purpose after noticing, and he would look at those pictures later for quite some time, you know, to “edit”.

***CLICK***

“That should do it,” Eddie inquired, looking up at Richie with unintentional fluttering eyelids.

“Let’s keep walking. Richie put the spider down, I think she’s had enough.”

Through the forest they trudged, eventually coming to a clearing where treetops branches twined together and created a globe. The sun breached in between leaves, forming spotlights of warmth that touched the ground; a highlighted stage for brave suitors. Birds of all kinds danced on the floor, perched in holes of trunks, and did flips in the air. It was noisy as all fuck, but the trio of humans approaching had to maintain silence and careful movements to stay.

Stan gripped Richie’s bicep, “Holy shit, _holy shit,_ Richie— that’s the cotinga. The cock of the rock, holy fucking SHIT.”

Richie pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “God damn look at this beautiful bachelor, where’s a lady to snatch this hunk up?”

“That red bird?” Eddie asked.

Both Richie and Stan whispered, “ _Mhm_.”

Richie snatched the binoculars from Stan’s hand and offered them to Eddie, “Wanna look a little closer?”

“I would’ve offered, but okay, let’s snatch things out of my hands,” Stan shrived.

Using his calves to lift his feet to have his entire weight on his toes, Eddie kissed Richie on the cheek, “I’d love to.”

Stan rose both eyebrows, pinched his lips and looked at his feet to act as if he didn't see the little kiss. 

Reddened, Richie continued, “Maybe you’ll get a call out of him too. They often attract other males, too.”

Eddie used his forearm to push Richie with light force before looking through the binoculars. After he was satisfied with the close view through the lenses, Eddie handed them back to Stan and gripped his camera to slowly walk into the clearing to capture some photos.

Richie plopped himself on a fallen log, where Stan stilly sat. His eyes shifted in non-chromatic beat, from male birds displaying their courting dances to Eddie who was carefully documenting their offers. They would linger on Eddie for a ridiculously longer amount of time though, giving him an itch in his throat with each glance.  

Stan lowered his binoculars, “Eddie’s pretty great, huh.”

Richie clenched his jaw that had been agape and gulped, “Edward Kaspbrak is not nearly as bad as we teased him to be before we met him, yes.” 

“I like him, and you two seem to click. Click, like his camera,” Stan sniggered at his own dry joke.

“Good one.”

“You like him too.”

“Yeah, who wouldn’t?”

“ _Rich_." 

“ _What_?”

“You know what I mean. I’m not fucking blind.”

“That’s why you don’t wear glasses, _Stan_.”

“If you could quit your bullshitting for like ten seconds, this would be a lot easier.”

“Fine. Yeah, um- I guess I like him.”

“Was that so hard?”

“Definitely more difficult than it is to get my dick har-”

Stan jolted up from his seat in an attempt to leave, but Richie gripped his wrist and tugged him back to sit. Eddie was still gleefully ignorant to the conversation taking place meters behind him.

“I’m sorry, you know I’m not good at this,” Richie apologized.

“Look at you, being genuine. _Bravo_.”

“Wow, thank you Maestro.”

Stan friendly patted the dip in Richie’s back, “Anytime. So tell me, what’s different about this one?”

Richie’s eyes returned to Eddie once more, “I don’t know, he’s just— _different_. I can’t really explain it.”

He could have explained it if he wanted to, he had a glorious grasp on using his words; he chose his times to use them however. When Eddie looked at him, hazel curtains unraveled gated sheets that he never wanted any living soul to gain access to. Eddie didn’t have to speak a sound to earn a softness that emerged from a pit of previously dungeoned suppression.

Being brutally honest, Stan reasoned, “Well if that’s the case, and there’s really something there, don’t close yourself off. I’d hate to see you fuck up an opportunity that actually looks promising. I really can’t say I’ve ever seen you like this with anyone Rich.”

An angered heat rose in Richie’s chest, “I’ll do what I see is fitting, thank you very much.”

Eddie excitedly waved and mouthed to Richie without making sound, “ _Come see this_!"

“Listen, you don’t have to be defensive. I’m just trying to look out for you since you never look out for your damn self. I actually care dumbass, and, I don’t want _you_ to be Sandy this time.”

* * *

_[Sunday, February 14, 2016]_

_Throwing an arm around Sandy’s shoulders, Richie used his hand to squeeze her breast indiscreetly while they waited in line to be let into the movie theater. She swatted his hand as a reprimand for his voyeuristic fondle, but couldn’t keep herself from smiling and peering around frantically to see if anyone else in line had noticed. Two teenagers in front of them most certainly had, and struggled to muffle their giggles._

_“Fuck Richie, cut it out with that shit,” she mumbled._

_“Sorry madam, didn’t realize today was for PG audiences only,” he quickly responded, using his free hand to point at the listings of movies playing tonight, where his finger directed at the one reading ‘Deadpool (Rated R): 7:45 PM’._

_“Still, there are children around.”_

_“I’m the biggest child here, you have nothin’ to worry about,” Richie quipped with a wink and his tongue poking out of his mouth._

_Sandy rolled her eyes and shrugged his arm off of her body. Running acrylic fingernails through her long blonde hair, she shifted her weight from her left to right side to alleviate the pain in the balls of her feet, thanks to the stilettos unnecessarily burdening them. She wasn’t normally a heels kind of gal, but she wanted to dress up for Valentine’s Day on a hopeful whim to extract a few words out of Richie that she hadn’t been able to for years._

_An ‘I love you’._

_Reaching into her bag for cigarettes for the both of them she chided, “Yeah, well save it for inside the theater. Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you use those grubby paws of yours.”_

_“I think I can cope with a maybe,” Richie laughed as he fisted a hand into a pocket of his jeans, the other accepting a cigarette from his girlfriend. She lit her stoge with a lighter, then purposely put it away so Richie would have to light his with the end of hers. Sandy, being the hopeless romantic she was, pictured this moment as an adult Lady and the Tramp parallel._

_She slipped her hand around his waist after apologetically slapping his arm away, and rested her head on his shoulder. She huffed in his scent of cheap laundry detergent and nicotine more than willingly._

_It was a scent that reminded her of the time they spent together as undergraduates in college, bringing undeniable comfort. After nights of studying vigorously for biochemistry finals she always knew she could escape to his dorm, even if he wasn’t there, to compose her mind. She used to press her face that was painted with yesterday’s makeup into his sheets, and melt into the fabric littered with his scent. It was one of the few things that could calm her down, and even encourage her to sleep._

_Ashing their cigarettes, they followed the line into the theater and took their seats. Sandy lifted the cup holder so that they could be closer, cuddling next to Richie with the nook of her head in his neck as the movie started._

_“Happy Valentine’s Day Richie, I love you.”_

_“Happy V-Day blondie,” and he kissed her on the temple._

_She would try again later for the response she wanted._

_The movie played out, with a howling Richie bellowing cackles throughout its entirety. He loved comics as a child, and even through his teens (and he’d be lying if he said he still didn’t return to those comics in rare blips of free time), and Deadpool had always been a favorite. There was an allure to this character who could muster humor from a tragic series of life events._

_He leaned over to kiss Sandy on the cheek every so often, but only out of habit._

_She was stunningly beautiful, intelligent, kind, overly generous, and understanding. His parents adored her, everyone adored her. And Richie adored her; he wouldn’t have maintained the relationship otherwise._

_From an outsider’s perspective, their bond was a match birthed from the Heavens: both on their way to earning science degrees, their families interacted beyond cordial greetings, they were arguably stable financially, both attractive, and in a heteronormative relationship that would never be scrutinized. Their children would have been enchantingly sarcastic cherubs without wings as well, if they ever decided upon having any._

_But, there was something missing. Richie knew it, felt it, and suppressed it for the convenience of his situation. Why destroy a good thing, when there’s nothing wrong per say?_

_The apartment that Richie shared with Stan was within walking distance to the theater, so once the movie ended they strolled hand in hand to the corner gas station for snacks and a six pack of Modelos. Richie used the crags in his molars to crack open a brew on the walk, earning a cringe and concerned whack from Sandy._

_“That’s going to fuck up your teeth one day.”_

_“They’re already fucked up!” he said before chugging half of his beer._

_“Fucked up is the wrong word. Goofy maybe, but they suit you, you’re a goofy guy. Gimme one of those will ya?”_

_Handing her a beer from the pack, she used a bottle opener on her keyring to rid the cap. She lifted the opening to her mouth and gulped all of its contents in one go like a fucking fratstar. The woman was tall and limber, but had a drinking capability that surpassed Richie’s; it was a blessing and a curse to inherit German genes that never made her a cheap date._

_In her eyes, the night was going as expected. The beers were a pacifier that eased the nerves of the conversation she knew was approaching._

_They finished the beers on their walk back to the apartment, and tossed the recyclables in a neighbor’s bin before stomping up the stairs. Richie pushed a finger to Sandy’s lips in a mock attempt to keep her quiet, for her heels clacked so loud there was no hiding her presence to the entire neighborhood. He didn’t mind their noise though._

_With his finger still glued to her face, her green eyes blew and obliged to his request. Without Richie having to verbalize the intention behind the gesture, Sandy kicked off her heels and swooped them from the ground. She was pleased she painted her toenails for this exact reason, knowing those nuisances would be off her feet eventually._

_Richie slowly turned the doorknob and quietly entered to divert waking Stan. There was nothing worse than waking Stanley Uris from a deep slumber; Satan himself would cower._

_He whispered nonchalantly, “Wanna stay the night? It is Valentine’s Day, babe.”_

_“Yeah I do, but I-, I have a question,” she frowned crossing her arms._

_“And looky here, I have an answer.”_

_She took a deep breath and asked above Richie’s whisper, “Do you love me?”_

_His face scrunched into a puzzled expression, “Yuh, of course I do.”_

_“You won’t say it though, why Rich? I’m not mad, I just- I’ve never heard you say it. Not once.”_

_He panicked._

_“I- uh, love you Sandy.”_

_A wisp of a doomed silence flew._

_“You know, I’ve been waiting to hear those words for a long time. A long. Ass. Time.”_

_“Mhm, I- I love you,” Richie nodded through a forced smile, ingenuine and ridden with a surfacing guilt._

_Surveilling his expression, she heavily sighed and lovingly cupped his jaw, “God, how I wish you meant that.”_

_It hurt him that he didn’t mean it too._

_There was an obvious fight on her face to keep it composed instead of shedding tears, and over a man who didn’t really love her. Through the blatant lie, the lack of reciprocation in their relationship of two years, and the defeated look on his face now, it was answer enough._

_“I love you, I do, I know you can feel I do. And god fucking damnit, I think I always will love you. But, I can’t waste my time on someone who can’t love me back. I hope you can understand that, I would want the same for you.”_

_Slacking her hand back to her side, she made her farewell, “I’ll miss you… goodbye, Rich.”_

_With a pained kiss to his cheek and a grab of her purse, she floated out of his apartment. Sobs echoed down the hallway along with the rustling of car keys— the duet of a shattered heart._

_But, he let her go._

* * *

Stan, Richie, and Eddie all made it to breakfast on time thanks to Stan, always because of Stan. Eddie was time efficient, but when he was with Richie time escaped him and he too needed a third party to keep him on schedule. If he would have realized this fact on his own he would have smacked himself for it. He preferred being the distraction for another man, not the other way around.

They had ‘receta del morocho’ and black coffee for breakfast, where Richie gulped down the main course but coughed down the caffeinated drink that was deficient in sugar and creme. If he were to prepare the drink, it would have been 30% coffee and 70% French vanilla half and half. So, mostly sugar.

Braiding her long hair at the bamboo table, Bev whistled sweetly after she finished the meal.

“Hey Richie, want to do some pinning in a few?”

“I’m always down to pin ya down my lady, give me any place and time”, and Richie blew a loud kiss in her direction.

The entire table groaned. Richie and Bev had never had sexual relations, and never would, but their banter made strangers think otherwise. They were platonically in love, different kinds of soulmates.

“Not today, but I’ll take a rain check. _Insect_ pinning is what I meant, my deepest apologies for the inclarity.”

“Oh boy oh boy, what a treat! Sounds like a delish afternoon, let’s do it.”

Yanking up his socks so they weren’t scrunched around his ankles anymore, Richie got to his feet and clasped Bev’s hand to follow him. They strolled to the lab only a few hundred yards away, pushing past two sets of doors draped with nets and rubber seals that would keep the inside air conditioned and free from creeping bugs. Two stools were placed next to each other at a heightened table without legs that was glued to the wall. Microscopes and sharp, metal instruments scattered across the table top from being used and not put back in their proper places.

Richie waltzed over to a small freezer, opening it and pulling out a small cardboard box that held a variety of collected insects. The freezer was the most humane way to murder insects, and he was relieved they had access to one. You _could_ asphyxiate them with highly concentrated ethanol in a sealed container, but he hated having to watch them suffer. And if the alcohol got on the wings of aerial insects, it would ruin the quality of their wings. When he took an entomology class as an undergraduate, a classmate called his workbench the “asphyxiation station”, and it made Richie’s stomach churn each time; he never wanted to be the source of another creature’s physical pain. At least with being frozen, one’s heartbeat would slow from the chill, muscles would tense, brain functionality and awareness would exponentially decrease, and you would be induced into an eternal sleep with the last breath being one of warmth and free from dismay. Richie always said that if he could pick a way to die (instead of dying in sleep), it would be freezing to death.

Sitting at the dual stools, Bev and Richie each took out specimens of their choices to pin. Richie was significantly better at preparing winged insects, so he reached for butterflies, moths, large beetles, and katydids. Bev had a specialty in buggers with many legs, like spiders. They made an efficient duo of biologists.

“How does this look?” Bev shoved a newly pinned Goliath Birdeater ( _Theraphosa blondi_ ) towards Richie for his approval. She knew it was pristinely pinned, but still craved Richie’s praise.

“Perfect as always, Ms. Marsh. A shame though, this one would have made a great pet. His name would have been, hmmmm…. D’Artagnan.”

Richie had a Mozambique Pinktoe tarantula as a pet for 5 years before it unfortunately died on his seventeenth birthday. He knew males didn’t tend to live very long, and he expected his life to be short lived, but he gave that spider the absolute world. When he came home from school that autumn evening, he fell to his knees and blatantly sobbed. Richie rarely shed tears at anything, but the loss of his friend had him curled helplessly into the fetal position with his door swung wide open for everybody to see.

Walking into a reptile shop with Mags at twelve year old, he quietly sang ELO’s _Mr. Blue Sky_. His attention was immediately seized by the tiniest blue creature hoisted atop a shelf in a round, plastic container. He picked the container up, analyzed it, and noticed that the spider inside raised its two front legs to dance along with his singing. There wasn’t any way in hell that he would leave the shop without his new best friend, who happened to be about the size of his thumbnail. He would grow to the size of his palm with loving care and time.

When he studied, he used to leave the cage unlatched so the spider could roam freely, sometimes even crawling up his arm and resting on his shoulder. He named the arachnid Zoltar, like the fortune teller from the film _Big_ , and he became Richie’s closest friend behind Stan. Richie mused that Zoltar had a wisdom beyond every human, and would concoct spells when he hid in his tunnelled web. Lest to say, Maggie Tozier only entered Richie’s room when Zoltar was put away.

He mourned Zoltar’s death to this day, as anyone would who had lost a good friend.

“You’re nuts. I love bugs and all, but I would never want to handle this thing. I mean come on, one bite and you could lose your hand.”

“Makes it that much more exciting! And plus, they’re big, fuzzy, eight-legged kittens. You _know_ how hard it is to get a tarantula to bite you, you’ve got to be a huge asshole. They’re misunderstood, tha’s all.”

“... still nuts,” Bev smiled fondly at him.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Hey Rich, can I ask you something?” she questioned while adjusting a leg of the tarantula.

“Yes, I’m a virgin.”

“We all know that. But really, what’s the deal with Eddie?”

“Eddie? I don’t know, you should ask him.”

“No idiot, I mean with you two.”

“Nah I knew what you meant, I was just hoping you would take that as an answer,” Richie chuckled.

“Soooooo…?”

“Well, uh, I think he’s great. Greater than great actually,” Richie replied with a sly grin looking into a microscope.

“Lil Rich has a crush, I fucking knew it.”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that. A wild understatement though.”

“Woah, so you love him then?”

Richie tensed, “We barely know each other, don’t be so dim.”

“So? You don’t always have to know someone long to love them.”

“Love at first sight is bullshit. Love in general is bullshit.”

“Fuck you, that’s not true. I know love when I see it.”

“And you think I love him?”, Richie said through slanted eyelids, but was nervously sweating.

“Yeah, I do”, Beverly stated defiantly with her arms crossed.

“I-”

Richie’s jaw clenched and he raised his head from the microscope to look out of the window in front of him. He put his utensils down, took off his glasses, and pushed the stool back to take a few breaths while pinching the bridge of his nose.

 _In, and out, in and out, in, out, 1 2 3, 4 5 6, 7 8 9, 8 7 6, 5 4 3, 2 1 0,_ he spoke in his head.

“Richie? I didn’t mean-”

He shoved himself from his seat and ran out of the tent. An anxiety attack now choked his hold on rationality.

“ _Richie_!”

Thoughts overwhelmed his head, he desperately needed space. Not just from other people, but from himself. Clumsily running to his tent, he halted himself in front of his box of records where he sought out a certain vinyl.

Richie may not have been able to rid himself of this sudden plagued discernment, but one trusted song could distract his flurry of realized panic.

Mozart’s _Lacrimosa_ fuelled his wallowing evervescence of anxiety.

These choirs sang to be put to rest. Heartstrings were strummed with a sorrowed, detested anguish. It was a ballad exuding a wish for peace amongst suffering merriment for the unknown:

 

_Lacrimosa dies illa_

_Qua resurget ex favilla_

_Judicandus homo reus_

 

_Huic ergo parce Deus_

_Pie Jesu Domine_

_Dona eis requiem_

 

_Amen._

 

Bev was right. 

Richie loved him, and he knew it, he fucking knew it. For the first time in Richard Tozier's life, he was the one to fall hard. Stan's warning regarding Sandy rang in between his ears, feeding his anxiety with toxic thoughts. He dwelled in the realization that it would be a nightmare to have been Sandy, and he was ready to drop to his hands and knees to pray to the God he didn't believe in so that he _never_ got a taste of the medicine he once administered to the unlucky individuals who fell for him. 

And now, he needed to make a phone call. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Joy, who was in support of this fic since before I even started writing it. And to Katie, who edited and constantly shouted at me. I love you both, endlessly. 
> 
> Updates will be more frequent now, and please share your thoughts!


	6. No God To Save Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’ello so this is definitely one of my favorite chapters that I’ve written. I know there’s a lot going on. Hope ya like it!!

[Wednesday, March 21, 2018] 

 

“ _Fuck_ , where is my goddamn phone.”

 

Even before this trip, where he knew he wasn’t going to have clear cellular reception, Richie was never a person to be glued to his phone. And honestly, he hated his phone. There was more to experience in the real world over being misconstrued by false dissertations on the internet. However he liked to peruse memes, because hell, they were mindless and sometimes funnier than any stand-up comic’s bullshit repertoire. His camera roll was a mess of poorly humorized memes only 1% of the population would laugh at, and awfully angled selfies of himself in the lab with Bev and Stan. There was no way you would be able to assume the person he built himself to be just by scrolling through his pictures.

 

Richie threw aside packed boxes that should have been unpacked and put away by now, sifted through piles of dirty clothes that needed to be laundered, double checked his pockets in the occasion he kept his phone close and forgot, and even lifted up his record player (as well as mattress) to locate his misplaced phone. It was nowhere to be seen.

 

_If I were a fucktard cellular device, where would I be._

 

The only place he could think of was a charger. And what do you know, his phone was plugged from the inside into the personal generator gifted to his tent from outside. An hour of time wasted to panicked anxiousness, oh well.

 

 _Could’a had a V8_ , Richie thought and smacked himself silly on the forehead.

 

He grabbed his phone and hastily walked to Mike’s hut at the head of the research station. Hopefully there was a spot for reception somewhere near that he would be able to make a very much needed phone call.

 

Pounding on the door Richie hailed, “Mike? You in there?”

 

“Coming coming, hold your horses.”

 

Opening up the plywood door, Mike greeted Richie with a heartwarming crescent of pearls, “How can I help ya.”

 

“I need to make a call, is there any way you can get me to somewhere that I can do that, Mikey?”

 

“Ayuh,” and he took out his phone to dial a foreign number, holding the dubious device close to his ear. He spoke broken Spanglish with the stranger on the other line then briefly ended the call. His features relaxed into a satisfied titter.

 

“There’s a panga coming within 30 minutes to drop off some supplies and they have a hotspot activated on it, you’re in luck. You’ll only have about 15 minutes for them to unload, will that be enough for your call?”

 

“Plenty,” Richie agreed.

 

When the boat arrived, Richie hobbled aboard and immediately phoned the individual he wanted to reach.

 

***VRPPP*VRPPPPPP*VRPPP***

 

“It’s about damn time,” the receiver breathed into the line.

 

“Hi Pops.”

 

“What took you so long to call?” And Went could be heard tapping his foot on the marble floor even through the phone. He was wearing black dress shoes, only those could make these pounding taps.

 

“I’ve been busy, _yeesh_. And plus, it’s super fucking hard to reach you from out here in Buttfuck Nowhere, okay?”

 

“Where the fuck did you get that sailor mouth from? Jesus H. Christ.”

 

The duo shared a laugh over the phone, their laughs almost sounding identical in tone. Mags would have swatted them both behind the head lovingly if she were present. Always lovingly.

 

“How’s the big research party goin’? I’ve missed hearing from you,” He cheerily continued.

 

“It’s actually been great, more like fuckin’ _awesome_ , we’ve made some big leaps. I’m expecting the papers we write, and yes even the one Stan’s writing about the diversification and distribution of Passerines, to be useful to the University. And I’ve made friends along the way, which is…. _cool_. Yeah, cool,” Richie trailed off.

 

“Friends? My boy making friends? Stan must feel so betrayed,” Went frolicsomely poked.

 

Richie scoffed, “Father, how _rude_.”

 

“I’m glad to hear it Richie.”

 

“Thanks,” And it was unmistakable that Richie was smiling even without being seen.

 

“What else can you fill me in on, it’s been a while.”

 

“Well, uh-”

 

“I _knew_ it.”

 

“What?”

 

“Who is it.”

 

“Who is _what_?”

 

“You only call me for two things Rich: when you’re drunk, or when you need advice. Or both. And you’re obviously not drunk, so what can I help you with.”

 

 _Crap_.

 

Coughing into his fist before answering, Richie admitted, “I need advice.”

 

Went snorted a winning snigger, “A girl? A boy? You get arrested? What this time?”

 

With the unsure submission of a child, Richie bit his thumbnail and answered, “Boy.”

 

“Ah okay, tell me what’s going on. What’s his name.”

 

“Eddie Kaspbrak.”

 

“I love the name Edwar-”

 

“ _Eddie_.”

 

“Yes sorry, Eddie. I had a wonderful dental assistant named Eddie a few years back. I have a good feeling with that name.”

 

“I really like him Pops.”

 

“You must, for you to call.”

 

Beginning to pace on the panga, Richie used his free hand to reach for the pencil behind his ear to twirl, “Yeah, I do.”

 

“You never called about Sandy so-”

 

“ _Dad_.”

 

“Ooooooo I got a ‘Dad’.”

 

“Okay yeah I like him…. more than like him, though. Might be uh, a first. If you catch my drift.”

 

“Love, hmm?”

 

Richie ingested a ghastly amount of breath that could have been heard through a closed door. He hated that this was so hard to admit, and to his father of all people.

 

“That’s why I called, uh, well,” Richie struggled to form a coherent sentence.

 

Went patiently waited for his son to struggle in finding words. Richie had always been a motormouth, and hearing him stumble over thinking twice about what he wanted to say was a relished novelty.

 

“How did you know you loved Mom?”

 

“Easy, when I kissed her for the first time.”

 

He hummed in response, searching for more of an explanation. The pencil was being fidgeted with in whirlwinds of spins and flicks.

 

“There’s no easy way to describe it other than I just knew. Love can be difficult, but it can also be wildly simple. Sometimes it’s harder to admit to yourself how you’re feeling, even when you already know.”

 

Richie gulped, “But we’re not even dating, can you love someone without knowing them for long?”

 

“I knew I loved your mother after only meeting her twice. I still love her… and miss her every day. Cupid’s arrow is a random fucking draw of cards,” Went quietly chuckled with pensive and melancholy hindrance.

 

“I miss her too, _God_ , if I could go bac-”

 

“I wish I could too.”

 

A weight suffocated Richie’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

 

“So what should I do? I really have no idea what to do here and I’m kind of freaking out.”

 

“Ask him to marry you.”

 

“WENTWORT-”

 

“I’m joking! Fuck, learn to take a joke.”

 

“Do you want me to hang up on you?”

 

“Honestly Richie I would just talk to him. He must like you too, I assume.”

 

“I don’t think he’d be macking on me if he didn-”

 

“Okay okay, I get it. Perhaps dating would be a good first step then, ask him if he wants that.”

 

“I’ve never been the one to ask first.”

 

“There’s a first for everything.”

 

Richie nervously smiled with his cheek pressed to the phone, “Thanks for talking with me Pops.”

 

“Anytime, I’m always here. Should I be expecting a drunk call soon?”

 

“Bet.”

 

“Splendid, I’ll be looking forward to it,” He happily huffed into the line as he ended the call.

 

After talking to his father, he felt better. Not healed, not completely sure, but better.

 

To distract himself the previous night, Richie decided to write up fragments of his paper in the lab. The title was formulated, he listed some of the acknowledgements, spent a good two hours on the ‘Materials and Methods’ section, and began the ‘Abstract’ even though he knew that part should be the last thing written. He hyper fixated on how he wanted the page titles to be positioned and centered, configuring the margins by the quarter centimeter. It was important to focus on writing anything factual and logistical to veer away from the memories that fought to command his sensibilities with irrationality.

 

He thought of Eddie, past numb relationships, but one terrible memory, and possibly the worst he held onto, revolved on a circulating belt as a grayscale slideshow that eventually won his attention. For the first time in what felt like centuries, Richie Tozier who never cried, had to push away his computer to bury his face in a pillow and shed tears.

 

* * *

_[Saturday, October 18, 2014]_

 

**_*DINGDONG*DINGDONG*_ **

 

_“OPEN UP PARENTALS, YOUR FAVORITE NUISANCE HATH RETURNED!” Richie screamed from the other side of the door._

 

_There was a confused shuffling of feet, then muffled giggles behind the door._

 

_“We have to make sure it’s the real you and not a clone, first,” Maggie Tozier softly responded._

 

_She knocked from the inside a series of specifically rhythmed taps “-... . .- -- / -- .” (Beam me); a phrase in morse code. She then waited for the correct reply._

 

_Richie knocked back accordingly “..- .--. / ... -.-. --- - - -.--” (up Scotty), using his knuckles to loudly and clearly answer._

 

_Maggie opened up the door and scooped her son into a loving hug, peppering both sides of his face in kisses, “Glad to know you’re not a clone, what a delightful surprise this is.”_

 

_“Missed you Mags, happy belated birthday.”_

 

_Being in the final year of his master’s program Richie was overwhelmed with seminars, research, teaching, all with little blips of sleep and copious amounts of ingested caffeine. And nicotine, of course. Maggie’s 49th birthday had just passed, and after catching up on some work beforehand he decided to surprise his parents in Derry with an impromptu visit._

 

_“Are you hungry? Can I make you anything?”_

 

_“I’m starved actually, got any Cheeze-Itz? Skittles?”_

 

_“Honey I’m willing to make you anything, some real food. How does chicken marsala sound?”_

 

_Richie excitedly bounced, “With the little capers?! Fuck yes, I missed your cooking.”_

 

_“Yes with the little capers, and-” She gripped his right forearm to bring it close to her face, heavily scowling._

 

_“Another tattoo?” Maggie traced her finger over the relatively fresh ink._

 

_“The aliens forced me to, I swear, they told me I’m the chosen one!”_

 

_She swatted his head with her free arm breaking her momentary chided coldness, smiling once more, “At least it’s a well done tree of life. Don’t tell your father…. but I actually kind of like it.”_

 

_He realized why he took so kindly to Beverly after only meeting her a few times; she reminded him of his mom. The good traits anyway._

 

_“Thanks Mom. Speaking of my old man, where is the silver fox?”_

 

_“He’s in his study revising some invoices, go bother him. He’ll be ecstatic to see his goofy son.”_

 

_Setting down his bags at the base of the stairs, Richie analyzed his childhood home. Everything seemed the same upon initial inspection: all the furniture remained in their same positions, the walls were the same colors, his childhood doodles were still held by magnets to the fridge, the television was even tuned into the same channel he had left it (Travel Channel). The only differences he could note were things missing. Certain vases gone without a trace. One painting off the wall hidden, or possibly broken from falling or being knocked from its nail. And there were recognizable cylindrical orange bottles tucked away in drawers, under carpets, and blatantly laying out. Medication bottles._

 

_Richie would confront his mother about this later, but first he wanted to greet his Dad._

 

_Thundering into the study Richie jittered, “Mister Tozier!”_

 

_“Holy shit, Richie? Is that, is that my cryptid son? Come here!” And Went stood from his swiveling chair to greet him with a warm hug, followed by a firm pat on the back. His crystal teal eyes seared into Richie as they looked him up and down. Maggie cheerily watched from the threshold._

 

_“It be me!”_

 

_“How have you been, come come, sit with me,” Went motioned for both of them to it in the other room at the kitchen table._

 

_While the two caught up on the last few months of life events, Maggie prepared the chicken marsala she had promised. She nonchalantly sipped on wine through the entirety of the process as well. Two bottles to be exact. Every few minutes she would disappear into the bathroom with her chalice, then return in time to flip the contents in the pan. She added ingredients, stirred, then would disappear again. Each time she returned, her demeanor shifted more from one of certain capability and awareness, to more incoherent. Her anxiety prescription habits had gotten worse since Richie left for college, and it was obvious. She was dependently enslaved._

 

_The trio had an enjoyable family dinner in each other’s company like years before, ending with Went retreating upstairs early due to an appointment the following morning. Richie stayed downstairs to make sure he was the last to go to bed, uneasy about leaving his mother alone._

 

_Maggie shifted her body weight to get up from the chair to head to the bathroom again, but Richie tenderly hooked her wrist with concerning intention._

 

_“Mags, wait—Mom. Enough with the pills, please? That can’t be good for you, especially with the fucking wine you’ve downed.” Richie had had a few glasses of wine too, but he was well in his wits._

 

_She relaxed her arm and put her hand atop his, “I’m f-fine Richie, just a lil anxious tonight. I’m glad to have you h-home, I am, am, but once you’re home I know you’ll have to leave. And I never know when I’m going to see you again.”_

 

_“I’ll always come back though, you know this.”_

 

_“I hope so, I-I’m counting on uhm, it,” She smiled at him, obviously inebriated._

 

_“I will, I love you Mom. More than anyone. You sure you’re going to be okay tonight? Need water or anything? I can read you some of the old comics that I used to as a kid that I know you hate-”_

 

_She giddily laughed, “No honey, I’m okay. I’ll make you waffles in the morning and we can talk about the next time you visit then, hmm?”_

 

_“Chocolate chip?”_

 

_“Of course. And, R-Richie?”_

 

_“Yeah?”_

 

_“I love you too sweetie, get some slee-uh-eep,” And she kissed him on the cheek goodnight._

 

_[Sunday, October 19, 2014]_

 

_“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?”_

 

_“My mom…. she’s, she’s not breathing. I told her not to, I didn’t check on her even though-, FUCK I knew it I knew it, this is all my fault, I don’t know what-, WHAT DO I DO?” Richie babbled into the telephone line in a blacked out state of panic._

 

_Wentworth was vigorously performing CPR on his wife while Richie was on the phone pacing. He was a disheveled mess, with feral eyes enhanced by swelling purple rings._

 

_“We’re sending paramedics to your location right now. Tell me exactly what happened.”_

 

_“I could have stopped this, the pills, drinking, I’m such a fucking idiot, I just-” He rambled making little sense to the operator._

 

_“Sir I need you to keep calm, tell me what happened.”_

 

_“She’s not breathing. She’s not breathing, what do I do-”_

 

_“Stay with her, is there anyone performing CPR?”_

 

_“My Dad,” He weakly responded, losing confidence in the situation with every word he verbalized._

 

_“That’s good, the ambulance is rounding your street right now. Is she still unresponsive?”_

 

_He peered over his shoulder to witness his father sitting limp next to Maggie on the floor, clasping her hand with a white knuckled force he desperately wished would surge life back into her cold corpse. Noticing Richie checking behind him, Went raised his gaze to meet his son’s and shook his head with heaps of wetness pouring down his face._

 

_“Hello? Sir? Are you there?”_

 

_The sirens of the ambulances became apparent from their driveway._

 

_“I was looking forward to waffles, you know? And now, now I’ll never get them,” he defeatedly relinquished his grip on the phone so it slipped to the floor._

 

_He knew for sure his mother had left this Earth, soul floating freely amongst nothingness. Part of his world died with Mags._

 

_And fuck._

 

_To him, it may as well of been his fault._

 

* * *

 

He exited the panga and took a well deserved break to meet a certain fiery haired woman in the main lodge. Bev was sitting on top of a table, spine hunched over with her tongue poking out of her mouth painting her toenails. She hummed _Little_ _Red Corvette_ that was sometimes in tune and sometimes out of tune. Bev loved Prince, her and Eddie had a very similar taste in music.

 

Richie crawled on top of the table with her and sat with legs crossed, “You have ugly toes, I’m glad you’re painting them.”

 

“And you have ugly fingers, I should paint them to cover up the dirt molded under your nails.”

 

 _You quick bitch, I love you,_ he internally jested.

 

“If you insist,” Richie snarled with a surreptitious wink.

 

Looking up for the first time since he sat down, Bev winced at what she saw, “ _Holy shit_ Richie, you’ve got terrible bags under your eyes. Been sleeping at all?”

 

Richie wiped his eyes, “I have, with the exception of last night. And maybe a few others.”

 

“What had your panties in a bunch last night?”

 

“My mom, actually.”

 

“Did she call? What’s up?”

 

“No, she uh, passed a few years back. The memory of it kind of pops into my head every so often.”

 

“Shit Richie, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-” And she wistfully put the nail brush back into the bottle to quickly use both her hands in grabbing Richie’s that were woven tightly in his lap, “I had no idea.”

 

“It’s fine, I’m just glad to have distractions to keep me from overthinking it, like you. Paint my ugly nails, yeah? Make ‘em blacker than hell, Bev.”

 

“My pleasure,” She agreed with an understandingly empathetic grin.

 

He relentlessly squirmed, fidgeted, but in his own Richie way tried his absolute hardest to keep still for her to do a decent job painting his nails. His leg bounced out of habit, shaking the table. At one point, he got side tracked thinking about pygmy goats and sneezed directly on both of their hands. Twenty minutes in to her masterful work, she had to redo his whole left hand after he forgot that it had been painted and needed to dry, running his fingers through his hair to get some of the midnight curls off his face. Bev’s patience was running low, but eventually she was able to finish when Richie’s attention was seized by entering guests.

 

Eddie, Bill, Stan, Mike, and Ben entered the lodge from the opposite end. Ben held in his arms multiple translucent, stacked plastic boxes that appeared to hold various kinds of art supplies.

 

Pulling out the bench at the table Richie and Bev sat on top of, Eddie hopped over to straddle it right below Richie, “Black nails, huh? You gonna recite slam poetry for us later?”

 

“Look who’s got the jokes today! You wound me! And joke’s on you because I _do_ in fact have an entire soliloquy planned. _Ten whole pages_ , and it’s titled _Ballad O’ Eds,_ ” Richie rambunctiously countered.

 

Stan chose the seat adjacent to Eddie, “Please spare us, I like having ears that don’t bleed.”

 

Richie pretended to hold a skull in his right upturned palm, “Eds! _Oh Eds!_ Do allow thy access to thine-”

 

“Beep beep, Richie,” Stan interrupted, not wanting to hear that sentence finished in any way, shape, or form. Period.

 

Eddie scooted himself back to the end of the bench, putting quite some distance between himself and the others. When Richie’s eyes shadowed his movements, Eddie patted the space in front of him that asked for Richie to come sit with him. Richie didn’t waste time in following directions.

 

“Soooooooo, I made you something,” Eddie proudly disclosed.

 

“A present? _Pour moi_?”

 

Richie loved presents, any kind of surprise really, but he shook with anticipation knowing Eddie himself had thought of him and took the time out of his day to gift him this token. Eddie reached into his shorts pocket to pull out two matching bracelets, braided with a tricolor of reeds. Red, yellow, and green.

 

“Thought you’d like rasta colors, you _do_ live in California.”

 

“You feisty gremlin, are you insinuating that me? _The_ Dr. Richard Tozier? Does the marijuana?”

 

“ _Ohmygod_ -”

 

“An outrage this is!”

 

“Am I wrong?” He shot back, validated in his assumption.

 

Richie’s shoulders shook with small laughs, “I mean _no_ , I do dabble in some dank kush, but I’m no connoisseur.” Eddie snorted a giggle at ‘dank kush’.

 

“I fuckin’ called it. Hanscom owes me $10.”

 

Eddie curled his tongue to whistle at Ben to sassily mouth, _I told you so_.

 

Richie ogled at the bracelets, “These are incredible Eds, who taught you how to make these? I freaking love it.”

 

“Ben and Mike. Stan and Bill made matching ones too, but I thought you’d like these colors over their’s. These seemed more… _Richie-esque_ ,” he beamed up at Richie.

 

“I don’t even know what their’s look like and I know your’s are better. The _craft_! The _mastery_! Gimme,” And Richie reached for the bracelet that was designated his and put it on. Eddie helped him secure the braided band to his wrist, then had Richie help him tie his own.

 

Richie waved his wrist about, flaunting it to everyone in the vicinity, even the chefs working hard in the kitchens. They patiently indulged him by commenting, “Qué bonita, señor” as he invaded their space.

 

He boldly strutted with his hand in the air like a newly engaged woman showing off her diamond ring, pleased with being the center of attention. Stan took a seat after a signature Stanley eye roll, then continued to enjoy Richie’s one-man show.

 

“Spaghetti Head made me a bracelet, come ‘round, come all, come see! Ain’t she a fuckin’ beaut!” He shouted, making Eddie go red in the face amidst his own fit of laughter. Richie Tozier was always keen on raising dramatics, and probably should have done theatre arts on the side.

 

He truly cherished the bracelet. Not just for the colors, how it fit, how it felt on his skin, but because Eddie had made it specially for him. Now he had a physical reminder tied to his body that would make him think of Eddie whenever he glanced down. Although, it had become common knowledge that Richie and Eddie had developed a habit of never really being apart. Eddie would hang out in the lab with Richie while he worked, Richie would go on hikes with Eddie as he took pictures. They were glued at the hip.

 

Bill slyly tapped Stan’s shoulder, “Hey S-Stan, where’s my d-duh-ance for the bracelet I-I made y-yuh-you?”

 

Flustered, Stan blushed and tucked a blonde curl that had sprung loose behind his ear, “I could say the same for you, Bill.”

 

The humidity made his hair frizz to a size he was not fond of and had to keep maintain his curls with constant grooming: combing, tucking, a little more gel here and there. God forbid his hair roam wild like Richie’s, even when it had been pulled partially back. What an unfathomable travesty that would be in his eyes.

 

Comically skipping across the floorboards towards Eddie, he plopped himself centered in Eddie’s lap and briskly pecked him on the lips, “Thanks again Eds, this is the best present ever.”

 

No one batted an eye at their first public gesture of romantic affection, it was honestly to be expected at some point with their escalating infatuated behavior.

 

Except for Stanley Uris. Yes, he knew that there were feelings existent, but even he miscalculated the severity of the given situation. His eyes were the only ones to widen in mellowed bewilderment, then gape in the opposite direction with contemplative thought.

 

This was a different Richie than Stan had ever witnessed. He _never_ acted like this, was _never_ this emotionally invested, not even for the people he had been officially dating for years. This was special, and Stan was the only one to analytically reflect on a seemingly insignificant peck.

 

 _Wow, he never did this shit with Sandy—fuck, anyone really. I hope Eddie understands what he’s gotten into, the poor guy_ , Stan reviewed, still entranced in his comfortable stare. He eventually returned his focus back to the others, after using a pen to make a nearly illegible acronym on his wrist that read “ttel” (talk to Eddie later).

 

The reckless fucker needed someone looking out for him, since sometimes he couldn’t even do that for himself. As much as Stan bagged on Richie, complained, reprimanded, momentarily hated, he loved him too and wanted to protect his well-being.

 

That’s what best friends do.

 

* * *

[Friday, March 30, 2018]

 

The waxing crescent surpassed, the waning gibbous was yet to come, and the intermediate headlining globe of reflected beams rose full on this eve to shower light on the forested nocturnal sheath. Creatures stirred and foliage ruffled with passing rain, unaware of sleeping inhabitants from cities far away. Not all were sleeping, however.

 

With headlamp cinched, Richie took a night time stroll under the full moon. Cigarette lit, adventure ahead. It wasn’t advised to walk alone at night, but the man was never one to follow good advice even if it was plastered to his forehead. Initially, he planned to visit the caiman lake a mile away and utilize one of the canoes left to paddle to its center and breathe in the stillness that came with the night (as well as bait the caimans that lurked in the lake). But a heavenly voice caught his attention instead, which sang not far from his own tent. It wasn’t Stan, not Bev. Bill’s snoring could still be heard,  Mike and Ben’s huts were hundreds of meters away. There was no fucking way that was Jairo.

 

Richie’s eyes scanned around and fell upon Eddie. He had his back pressed to a babassu tree just outside his tent, where the humidity in the air amplified his raspy version of _The_ _Moon Song._ Moonlight kissed his olive skin, illuminating the wooden instrument in his hands. He contently strummed his ukelele with perfect time:

 

_“I'm lying on the moon_

_My dear, I'll be there soon_

_It's a quiet and starry place_

_Time's we're swallowed up_

_In space we're here a million miles away.”_

 

Switching off his headlamp, Richie approached cautiously but with little stealth. He dragged the remainder of his abused cigarette, then ashed it. Peered around the bend of the path, he viewed Eddie harmonizing. If his pupils hadn’t dilated naturally from the darkness, they blew to completely overtake his irises with their current size. His smitten heart thundered within his chest with a dangerous force of beating.

 

_“There's things I wish I knew_

_There's no thing I'd keep from you_

_It's a dark and shiny place_

_But with you my dear_

_I'm safe and we're a million miles away.”_

 

Subconsciously he moved closer, his feet floating across a circus tightrope to the safe ledge at the other side where the photographer sat. Eddie’s voice had a similar effect that a siren’s song would with dumbstruck seafarers; magnetizing, roped you in until there was no point of return. The breath escaping from Eddie’s lips was visible under the moon’s rays, the notes visibly being swept away into the sky and reforming with the mosaic of stars above.

 

After a final verse, the spell was broken and Richie halted his freethinking soles. He couldn’t halt his mouth though.

 

“That was beautiful,” he softly exhaled. Then he scrunched his entire face, knowing he revealed his spying location.

 

Startled, Eddie squeaked out, “ _Richie_? Shit, I didn’t know you were listening, it’s two in the morni-”

 

“I was on a walk and kinda got distracted,” he scratched the side of his neck with minor embarrassment as he approached Eddie. Now Richie knew how he felt taking those secret pictures of him, except he actually got caught in the moment.  

 

“Did I wake you up?”

 

“No, but heck I wish you did. I didn’t know you sang, let alone sang _well_ ,” and Richie lowered his body to sit next to Eddie against the babassu.

 

Eddie proudly grinned, “I do sing nice, huh.”

 

“The best voice I ever did hear.”

 

“Shut up, no it’s not.”

 

“You betcha it is, and look, your guitar is even mini like you! You’re like a Polly Pocket, Eds!”

 

Eddie used his entire body weight to side-shove Richie, knocking his upper body out of its comfortable position and slamming to the floor. His glasses didn’t completely fly off his face, but they were crookedly mangled and would need adjusting to see properly. Richie stayed glued to the mossy ground, his core rapidly fibrillating as he howled with laughter. The dew from the moss dampened his back, but he really couldn't care less. Less than less actually.

 

Even Eddie couldn’t fight a grin. Richie’s hair hung over his eyes, and only his irrepressible smile that belted laughter could be seen on his pale canvas. He didn’t show any trace of being anxious, and that made Eddie’s face, as well as his insides, smile.

 

Once he regained some composure, Richie begged, “But seriously, will you sing again sometime? Pretty please? I would do just about anything to hear you sing again.”

 

Eddie teasingly crossed his arms and smugly frowned, “I don’t know….”

 

“Do allow thy mere simpleton the privilege to bestow upon thee a guerdon for ye troubles, m’lord.”

 

Eddie smirked and amusedly raised his eyebrows.

 

“ _Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleas-_ ”

 

“Well what do I get out of it?”

 

Richie shot up from the ground and used both hands to cup Eddie’s face, planting a pursed kiss directly onto his lips. Eddie gently reciprocated, relaxing his own lips to match the plush softness of Richie’s offer. Yeah, Richie tasted of smoke and sour candy, but somehow, Eddie didn’t mind. The smoke itself had a foul odor, but its taste, the bitter taste of nicotine on Richie was uniquely his own. He continued to discover things he liked about Richie that he had never fancied in men beforehand.

 

Leaning closer, Eddie parted his mouth to deepen the kiss, and Richie eagerly accepted the entrance. He slowly lowered his hands to Eddie’s waist, curling his fingers into his shirt until he ultimately pulled all of Eddie into his lap. The unnecessary distance was compromised with wrapped arms, tangled legs, closed eyes, and pressed lips.

 

It wasn’t rushed, they needn’t have any rush. It wasn’t fueled by a tortured pining, there weren’t deceiving factors to guiltily loom in their crevices of thought. They took their time gliding tongues and breathing in one another’s heat until they needed to replenish their own supply. The hours of the night were solely their’s.

 

Eddie briefly pulled away, “I think this deal can be arranged.”

 

“Wait, I need your signature. Just in case lawyers need to be involved, _I’m on to you Kaspbrak_ ,” Richie imitated in his best 1930’s movie star detective voice. It was pretty damn good, not as good as his other impressions, but still well above average.

 

Reaching into his back pocket, Richie retrieved one of his sketchbooks and turned to a random page. The free hand not around Eddie’s torso knocked the pencil from his ear, and he drew an ‘x’ followed by a line for Eddie to sign on.

 

_x Eds Kaspbrak_

 

“I _knew_ you liked the nickname.”

 

“Oh, I hate it,” And Eddie flicked Richie’s nose lightly with his fingers. That was a lie.

 

Richie and Eddie may have thought that they came to the Amazon for research, travelling, for work, ego boosting acclamaids, but by some cosmic coincidence perhaps they arrived to gain other archives. Maintaining the tough exterior, but learning courage through vulnerability. Accepting and embracing love, sans anger from one’s past. Forgiving oneself for wrongs in  which they weren’t at fault.

 

Finding each other.

 

Lady Luna once again performed her voodoo, winking down at the two from thousands of miles yonder across space.

 

* * *

 

[Saturday, March 31, 2018] 

 

Today was a big day. No one knew it besides Richie, but today was a big fucking day.

 

Absentmindedly working in the lab on separate projects in the duration of the morning, he smiled the entire time. He pinned more specimens, emptied some traps, ran a few data analyses, made some sketches where the final copies would eventually end up in the published report. A stereo turned into a satellite radio station that exclusively played classic rock tunes bleared in the small laboratory, Richie happily humming along to each song.

 

When lunch time came around, Stan and Bill were surprised to see that Richie was not only the first one there, but twenty minutes early.

 

Stan took a seat next to a grinning Richie and lowered his voice suspiciously, “Well don’t you look chipper today…. _what are you hiding_.”

 

“Never do miss a thing, do ya Stanny boy? You’ll find out later, I promise.”

 

“Does this surprise of yours include something that rhymes with Teddie Assbrak-”

 

Richie quickly silenced him by cupping his hand over Stan’s mouth, “Patience Staniel, it’s a virtue you should really consider learning ya know.”

 

Annoyedly shaking away Richie’s grubby hand, he scoffed, “I’m the most patient person on this fucking _Earth_ -”

 

“Shhhh my child, don’t break a sweat sweetheart,” he patronizingly cooed.

 

“You’re a shithead Richie.”

 

“You say that like it’s new information,” Richie snarked.

 

Stan chuckled and laxidazily turned his head to roll his eyes so that only Bill could see.

 

Two voices could be heard stomping up the steps into the dining hall, becoming more prominent the closer they got; they were singing. One of the voices was a female, the other a male’s. The male’s voice had a surprising range and accuracy, hitting all the high notes to Michael Jackson’s song, _Billie Jean_.

 

Richie cocked his head, and sported his infamous toothy Tozier smile at the incoming guests.

 

Bev and Eddie reached the top of the steps still in their duet, and without breaking eye contact both began to moon walk alongside each other. Eddie was downright incredible at it; his years of watching 80’s music videos online and dancing in his apartment truly paid off when the opportunity to flaunt arose. He also wore a pair of blue short-shorts (they were _very_ short) with a white stripe down the side that thoroughly exposed his toned legs. His thighs had outlined muscles that became defined curvatures as he gracefully moved.

 

Poor Richie, the man’s heart nearly stopped beating. The eulogy on his gravestone would have read: “Rest in Pieces Richie, Death By Cute Pasta Man”. This would the utmost honorable death, outshining a death by Bill’s man-eating Venus Flytrap monster.

 

 _Have mercy Eds,_ Richie whimpered in his thoughts, not daring to look away from Eddie.

 

When the two finished their jig and peered around for the first time, Bev burst out into laughter. Richie sat there sweating with lovestruck eyes, and mouth ajar.

 

“Rich your jaw is getting the floor dirty, need help rolling your tongue back into your mouth?” She teased.

 

Ignoring her, Richie held out his arms and wiggled his fingers for Eddie.

 

Eddie joyfully allowed himself to be pulled into a hug from where Richie sat, “You’re here early.”

 

“I came for the show,” Richie grinned up at him from Eddie’s diaphragm.

 

“Who let you in? It was a sold out show.”

 

Richie pivoted with his arms still attached so that Eddie could sit next to him, “I have somewhere I want to take you later, and I refuse no as an answer.”

 

“No,” Eddie challenged.

 

“Pwetty pweeze Eddie Kwasbwak,” Richie asked in a high pitched anime voice.

 

“I was just kidding, but _please_ never do that voice again,” he cringed through a laugh.

 

“Fine, fine. Okay so meet me at my tent at 3 PM, OH, and bring your camera. You’ll need it.”

 

“Bold of you to assume I go anywhere without it.”

 

“I don’t see it on ya now, cutie,” Richie naughtily attested.

 

Eddie scowled at throwing himself under his own bus, “Touché.”

 

They enjoyed the remainder of lunch making easy conversation, bantering an intellectually charged debate about who would win in a fight— Matilda, or Eleven from _Stranger Things_.  Bill and Stan argued for Matilda, where Richie and Eddie fought for Eleven.

 

Once everyone retreated to their tents, Richie took a shower, changed his clothes, tied up part of his hair into a bun, and excitedly waited for Eddie to arrive. He chose one of his favorite shirts to wear, not because it was his nicest, but because it was tie-dyed in the bisexual pride flag colors. He was a proud bi man, and this was his indiscreet way of rocking that support for how he lived.

 

Eddie shook the outside of Richie’s tent, “Hey, you in there-”

 

Before Eddie could finish, Richie eagerly popped out, “Let’s roll.”

 

The hike Richie led took approximately a half hour. They had to push aside fronds, hop over fallen logs, balance across a rickety (and quite unsafe) bridge strung over a river, and scale a muddied hill before reaching their destination.

 

A monstrous wimba tree had branches curling well above the surrounding perennials, towering at 55 meters tall. Constructed to its trunk, a metal staircase shot vertically to a platform securely welded to the canopy. From the floor, that platform appeared to be sitting among the clouds.

 

_He’s gotta be fucking kidding._

 

Richie expectantly anticipated a rebuke from Eddie, but before Eddie could detest, he rambled facts as a distraction, “ _Ceiba samauma,_ they’re some of the tallest trees in the Amazon. Some of the tribes around here are afraid of them, thinkin’ they’re home to evil spirits.”

 

“Look at the size of this thing, looks evil to me.”

 

Taking ahold of the staircase, Richie began to climb, “C’mon Eds, she don’t bite!”

 

“If I die, this is on you, Tozier!”

 

Eddie followed closely behind Richie, not looking down once. He worried if he looked down at any point, he would experience vertigo and go limp, falling to the forest floor. Instead, he focused his breathing and stared into Richie’s back as he ascended.

 

They carefully crawled onto the wooden platform, then sat upright next to each other. Richie hung his legs over the side, and leaned his body weight back on both of his palms.

 

The view was unmatched by anything Eddie had ever seen. A thick green blanket lay below them, birds flew in flocks across the orange sky, the sun was close enough to setting that its angle of light projection made the tops of the trees glisten, it was a serene jungle painting better than any picture. Breezes from a coffee bean grove nearby wafted sweet scents of bitter cocoa and cinnamon upward to where Eddie and Richie were sprawled.

 

Richie took Eddie’s stunned silence already as his answer, but he asked anyway, “Like it?”

 

“I’ve never seen anything like this, and honestly, I would have never climbed up here myself. So, thank you.”

 

“I have something for you,” Richie simultaneously spoke as he took out his sketchbook.

 

Opening it to a center page, a long feather was flattened and coated in a hardening preservative so it wouldn’t get damaged. He found this prized collectible on his first hike to the wimba, immediately deciding to gift it to Eddie. It was more important to give Eddie something special to him than to keep it locked away in a shadow box just for display.

 

He wanted to give everything to Eddie.

 

“It’s a harpy eagle feather. They’re so fucking rare, finding a feather like this was something I never planned on stumbling upon… kinda like me meeting you,” Richie softly admitted.

 

Eddie’s body heated, “It’s gorgeous, Richie.”

 

Delicately pinching the quill of the feather, Richie tucked it behind Eddie’s ear, “Looks better on you than in any box.”

 

“How is it that you are one of the most annoying people I’ve ever met, and yet one of the most charming? You baffle me.”

 

“I really brought you up here for something else though, as stoked as I was to give you that feather,” Richie shyly gripped the back of his neck.

 

 _There’s a first for everything_ , Went’s advice echoed in Richie’s head.

 

“I’m all ears,” Eddie knowingly prodded.

 

“Would you uh, by any chance, maybe, ummm,” he babbled. Eddie placed his hand on Richie’s thigh to calm the fidgeted bouncing of his leg. The shaking stopped with the contact.

 

“Would you be interested in being my boyfriend?” Richie choked out.

 

“I thought you were never going to ask, it’s about damn time,” Eddie agreed, leaning forward to sweetly kiss Richie’s lips. Removing his hand from the back of his neck, Richie transferred it to cradle Eddie’s face as he kissed his boyfriend back. Choirs of angels blew their trumpets and sang from the heavens.

 

His boyfriend, Eddie Kaspbrak. _His_ boyfriend. No candy was sweeter than the satisfaction of now having Eddie as his exclusive significant other.

 

Richie cupped the sides of his mouth and yelled into the sky, “EDDIE KASPBRAK IS MY BOYFRIEND! HANDS OFF! THIS ASS IS TAKEN! YOU HEAR THAT UNIVERSE? MINE!”

 

Birds hurriedly fluttered from the tree cover after the booming echos of Richie’s screaming.

 

Eddie cackled, using the back of his hand to cover his mouth as he laughed, “What have I gotten myself into.”

 

Slinging an arm around Eddie, Richie jokingly boasted, “Only the biggest mistake of your life.”

 

“I hope God forgives me. Father Almighty, I have sinned with this decision.”

 

Richie huffed a snigger from the back of his throat.

 

“What are you snorting about? Hmmm?”

 

“Nothing,” and he did a butchered version of the sign of the cross prayer that Catholics often do.

 

“I’m not crazy religious, but I’m pretty sure you did that totally wrong,” Eddie pointed out, amused.

 

“Ah phooey, who cares,” Richie shrugged.

 

“You don’t believe in God?”

 

“No, but I wish I did. Sure would be nice.”

 

“I mean, I don’t really know if there’s a _God_ per se, but I think there’s something bigger out there than us. There must be, right? All of this happening for no reason would be crazy to me.”

 

“I like your optimism, I admire it actually. I’ve just never been able to believe that.”

 

Eddie considered his response but could only form one word, “Why?”

 

“I tried, I really did. I went to church with my parents, _kinda_ watched my mouth when I was in that steeple of lies, fuck Eddie, I even prayed. I _tried_. But life isn’t fair, nothing is handed out, why pray to something I don’t even know is there?”

 

“Gives you someone to talk to when no one else is there, I guess.”

 

“We’re both only children, we’ll talk to ourselves anyway,” Richie painfully chuckled.

 

“But what about after you die? How do go about everyday thinking that it just ends with…. _nothing_.”

 

Richie adjusted his taller form to rest his cheekbone on the side of Eddie’s chestnut waves, “I’m realistic, Eds. But also try to see it from my perspective— that’s the beauty of life in my eyes. We’re birthed without choice onto this cursed, yet beautiful planet without any kind of reason. None. There’s a nutty amount of _freedom_ to create your own purpose, leave your own mark on the world that wasn’t destined for you from any beginning. I believe, in the most positive way possible, that we were thrown into existence by coincidental shit luck, and what a gift it is to be given that unrestricted opportunity.”

 

He turned his body and took Richie’s hand thoughtfully, “You might be right. And honestly, I don’t care if you believe in any God, I just want to know that you’re happy with the life you live. With no regrets.”

 

Eddie looked Richie up and down, appreciating his conventionally damned boyfriend. The collection of freckles clustered over his body formed niches of a galaxy. There were suns, moons, stars, asteroid belts, comets, abandoned planets, shattered novas, all elucidating one fragmented tale the deeper you delved into their twinkled void.

 

“I try to be happy, or keep busy when I’m not. The thoughts that keeps me motivated? Passionate? That the only time I have is right now, because when I end up as a rotting corpse in the dirt, what I leave behind is all I’ll be. I won’t get any other chances besides what’s in the present. And if I truly am a good person, and there is a ruling deity above us, through all this bullshit they’ll realize this and decide I won’t deserve eternity burning in Hell just because I couldn’t accept an ideology without proof.”

 

“Nah, you’ll go to Hell for other reasons,” Eddie light-heartedly provoked, nudging closer.

 

“It’s because I like boys, okay _one_ boy, trust me I know. I'll see you there, it’ll be a flaming gay rager,” he winked at Eddie.

 

“Not a rager, a _‘gayger’_ ,” he added to Richie’s picturesque vision of Hell.

 

_Fuck that was good, why didn’t I think of that? My boyfriend’s making me stupid, damnit…. worth it._

 

Richie peacefully continued, “But now that you’ve popped into my life, the spicy munchkin I didn’t know I needed, I don’t think I could ever be unhappy.”

 

His sapphire eyes clouded after a dwindling moment, “My mom would have loved you.”

 

”That makes one of us, my mother would have hated you,” Eddie pinched a smile from his own dark joke. 

 

He moved his body even closer so their overhanging ankles hooked for security and continued, “But Stan told me a bit about her… I’m so sorry. No one deserves to go through that, and I wish I could have gotten to meet her too.”

 

“I miss her every day,” he trailed off. It took him a few seconds to choke out the remainder of  his possibly over-honest thought.

 

“...and I still feel like it’s _my_ fault.”

 

Eddie jerked his head to intently stare through Richie with a commanding fire, “That was not your fault. That. Was not. Your fault.” His hand grazed Richie’s side, to reach his jaw and pinch with assurity. There was a broken man hiding behind those horn-rimmed glasses, whom desperately sought liberation from years of burdened pain.

 

Richie looked back at him with numbed eyes, gated with unjust acceptance. Even if it wasn’t his fault, he reflected on it so many times that this lie became his truth.

 

His jaw quivered at Eddie’s touch, “But, _what if it was_ -”

 

“It’s not, Richie. Not one bit. Please listen to me, _you’re_ not responsible for other people’s decisions. It’s not fair to yourself to hold on to that pain. I know you miss her, wish you could have done more, but…. you did _nothing_ wrong,” and Eddie lovingly pulled Richie’s shoulders toward him, curling his arms tightly, and Richie buried his face in Eddie’s neck. He felt safe and unjudged to collapse in Eddie’s grip, succumbing to the tears that would stain his cheeks.

 

Richie Tozier never cried. It was never his thing. The truth was, he never allowed himself to cry, but the tears had always been there and finally flooded out of their gates in one violent swish.

 

He took a spurted breath, exhaled. Another deep breath, and exhaled. Eddie ran a hand soothingly along his clothed spine, calming the erratic rise and fall of Richie’s breaths. When his hand would reach close enough to the base of Richie’s neck, he’d weave fingers through his untied midnight curls. It felt natural to comfort the man he held in his arms, unforced and instinctive. Eddie had this ethereal ability to relax Richie and break through emotional barriers no other had been previously successful.

 

A four year weight that defiled Richie’s insides, constricted his self worth, poisoned him with guilt, finally lifted. Richie had never wanted to tell someone that he loved them more than he wanted to tell Eddie.

 

He was slowly evolving, all from falling for one extraordinary individual.

 

They continued to talk, cuddle, and be present in each other’s company for hours past the sun went down. The stars came out, shined briefly, then were covered by clouds. They were black, rumbling clouds that had no intention of light showers. This was going to be a raging thunderstorm, apparent by the sparks of lightning igniting from the clouds’ center. Even with being elevated high enough above the canopy to see the impending storm approaching from miles away, Eddie and Richie didn’t notice. Perhaps if they had looked up once from each other over those blissful hours, they would have noticed.

 

But, they didn’t.

 

It approached at a worrisome speed, and being a hike away from the research station without service, or a walkie talkie that just required a faint signal, it was becoming a dangerous predicament to be caught in.

 

“You’re telling me, what the heck is someone supposed to do in a situation like tha-”

 

A close flash of lightning caught Richie’s attention from his peripheral vision and he cut Eddie off, “Eddie, we need to go. _Now_.”

 

“Wait what? What’s wrong?” But as Eddie turned around to look where Richie was nervously gawking, the sky dumped heavy rain on them.

 

“Lightning. Metal staircase. LET’S GO.”

 

“ _FUCK_.”

 

They sprinted down the metal steps and Eddie yelped from behind, “I KNEW YOU WERE GOING TO GET ME KILLED!”

 

He was only half kidding.

 

Running through the forest as fast as they could, the pouring rain drenched them from head to toe. The ground became less stable with thick mud flowing over the path, with the only indications they were still on the path now were blue flags taped around the bases of trees every hundred meters. Locating those tree markers was the frightening element; Richie and Eddie needed to remember the general line of the path to reach the trees that assured they were going the correct direction. Or else, you were lost.

 

 _Fucking_ lost.

 

The river massively grew in size with new battling rapids underneath the bridge they needed to cross. The narrow boards were slippery with moss, the chain link handrails swayed loosely from their shackled posts, and the entire bridge shook from the forceful winds.

 

“You go, I want to make sure you’re safe first,” Richie encouraged, squeezing Eddie’s hand.

 

Eddie crossed first, death gripping the rails and carefully watching his footing until he safely reached the other side.

 

He shouted over the thunder, “BE CAREFUL, OKAY?”

 

“AYE-AYE CAPTAIN!” He yelled back, saluting from his forehead. Doing the same as Eddie, Richie began the 200 foot cross.

 

He unfortunately only made it halfway.

 

A flash of lightning struck the tree overhanging the bridge, engulfing the tree with sparked flames and scattered cinders. It split with a tear, sending its left half tumbling to its demise and onto the weakly constructed bridge. The bridge shattered in the center, swallowed by the turbulent waves.

 

And with the bridge, Richie was also devoured by the current.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angsty ending MUAHAHAHA  
> It gets better, I fucking promise. Hang in there.
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr: hypnoidvoid](https://hypnoidvoid.tumblr.com)
> 
>  
> 
> [Art by liliemm](https://hypnoidvoid.tumblr.com/post/177579372081/key-to-the-jungle-chapter-6)


	7. The Ace of Spades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I left everyone on a cliffhanger, and deepest apologies for that *cackles*, so I hope this monster of a chapter makes up for it. I had a lot of fun writing it, even through my inundated personal traumas. There are a lot of hidden details in the flashback at the very beginning for foreshadowing, so keep an attentive eye for those. Also March 31 of this year, when some of these scenes takes place, was a confirmed second Blue Moon. And as always thank you for reading and for staying interested. Truly. I’m not the fastest writer, and I appreciate the patience you all have with me. Shout at me with comments, feed me, quench me you fiends.

Water is a simple enough compound, its composition only three atoms: two hydrogens and one oxygen. It is a universal symbol of healing, preservation of life, rejuvenation, rebirth, rich fortune and good omen.  

 

Water is also the most destructive force on planet Earth. It has buried entire cities, swallowed grandeur ones of myth, carved smooth canyons and jagged canyons, swelled in the sky and risen out of the cracks in the ground, the walls, the ocean to obliterate any mass of particles, alive or not, that stood as aware barricades. Even the water circulating through your organs manipulates with its need, and can ultimately cause the body to shut down if not properly tended to.  

 

We need water.

 

Unfortunately what can be our greatest salvation, its tangibility a realistic and more worshipable force than any faith, also possesses the capability to lead to complete annihilation. It's one of countless paradoxical paradigms existing in the natural world that presents itself as belligerently unfair. Sometimes you need to look out for yourself in a world where nothing is actively working to protect you, and sometimes you, and only you, remains the only lifeline.

 

Nothing wins against water. Finding a flow to coincide with it remains the sole option for the planet’s survival, his survival, her survival, their survival, your survival— everyone’s survival.

 

And Richie’s.

 

* * *

 

 

_[Thursday, March 15, 2018]_

 

_“You look like you smell of honey and no pain, let me have a taste of that,” Richie mumbled to himself with scrunched eyebrows and face inches from inked pages. His nose breached close enough to the dampened paper he could smell the years of use behind them; the sets of fingerprints that had overswept its surface, droplets of room temperature coffee that had accidentally stained the folded corners, the remnants of cologne absorbed into its parchment after having been set on a chest for hours upon an impromptu nap. He was overly quiet so no one would have any living chance of hearing him, even though he was leagues away from the research station. This was just a natural precaution, of course._

 

_Legs comfortably spread, chucks kicked off, cotton long sleeve bunched up around his lithe frame, Richie solemnly bundled himself in a knitted hammock overlooking the Amazon River. In one hand, a half burned cigarette. In the other, a tattered library book of acclaimed poetry works. Some long, some only a few sentences. Their derivative range was from classical decades to contemporary blippets of early last year: Shel Silverstein, William Shakespeare, Robert Frost, Walt Whitman, Rupi Kaur, Sylvia Plath, and Edgar Allan Poe to name a handful._

 

_In the only library on the premises, that happened to be adjacent to his designated laboratory, he perused inside out of curiosity. Richie loved books; and none of that Kindle shit, he liked the real thing._

 

_He loved their physical form, holding them gently in his hands and admiring their covers, illustrated or not. He loved gliding his fingers along their rough bindings, opening them in half to see if there were scribbles left by past owners. Striding through the rows of literature, he traced his eyes over fairly organized sections, eventually locating a shelf that exclusively contained poetry and slumped into a calm, familiar ecstasy. One book caught his interest, the book he read now, slipping it under his long sleeve and securing it into his waistband to read alone later in a hammock by the river._

 

_Gracious breezes of moistened ferns and fruitful soils pleasantly washed through the basin in recurrent gesticulations. The wind chill was enough for your hair to be kept down without sweating, allowing your neck to be shaded and shoulders sheathed. So, Richie let his hair run wild with the humidity. No clothing excessively warm in the Amazon was necessary, but light coverage made cooler days all the more enjoyable. So, Richie wore a long sleeved cotton t-shirt that said ‘World’s Best Iguana Mom’. This ludicrous shirt was the holy grail of all Goodwill finds, and in both of their opinions, Stanley Uris’ best Christmas present to Richie out of all their years of mayhemed friendship._

 

_The Amazonian river rippled as Richie read, with underneath, uncountable creatures scrummaging for meals and coincidingly escaping their predators as an unfortunate normality of life. The predator could have been harmless to you, a guppy small enough to devour defenseless algae, or cryptically fatal to you, one with hypodermic fangs, leisurely pawning for moments of your distraction._

 

_You never knew when a predator, your predator, would be devising a strike._

 

_Pushing curls off the front of his face to rest on the sides of his glasses and behind his ears, Richie continued to quietly mumble aloud poem verses. This one he took a particular liking to, smiling as he softly spoke aloud:_

 

_“Take this kiss upon the brow_

_And, in parting from you now,_

_Thus much let me avow —_

_You are not wrong, who deem_

_That my days have been a dream;_

_Yet if hope has flown away_

_In a night, or in a day,_

_In a vision, or in none,_

_Is it therefore the less gone?_

_All that we see or seem_

_Is but a dream within a dream.”_

 

_He closed his eyes to suckle his last few drags out of his cigarette. Savoring the menthol flavor and holding in the putrid smoke, he exhaled final grey plumes in spurted rings before ashing the nub below the hammock in a dirt mound._

 

_Taking pride in his ‘big’ accomplishments, he almost took more in the small ones: being able to tie a cherry stem in a knot with his tongue, blowing smoke rings, being able to flawlessly recite all the lyrics to “Baby Got Back”, knowing the algorithm to complete any rubix cube. They all counted._

 

_“Mhm,” he garbled, snatching the pencil from behind his ear to make a comment in his notebook. When he read he often made notes to himself, and not for any particular reason, just because at the time he thought they were important. Perhaps sometime in the future he would use these notes. For a paper? Personal nostalgia? Shits and giggles? Who knew! But it had to be written down._

 

_In this note he wrote with his right hand (the less dominant hand), messily scribbling ‘Mr. Poe on the Ides of March, a self indulgent slitting of wrists! Carpe Diem! Lightning can’t strike me down!’._

 

_Giggling to himself was cut short when from a few meters behind him he heard scraping of brush, a thud on the ground, then pained grunts._

 

_“Fuckin-, OUCH,” the voice angrily murmered, clutching his knee on the floor._

 

_Richie immediately abandoned his two books and shot out of the hammock to jog over and help._

 

_“Whatcha trippin’ ove- EDS, Eds, oh you ok? Shit, that’s a nasty gouge mi amigo. Those lianas coming out of the ground are fuckers,” Richie ranted, bending down to meet Eddie to examine his wound._

 

_Eddie slightly embarrassed tried laughing it off, “Yeah I’m fine, ‘tis but scratch.”_

 

_“Oh ho-ho okay Monty Python. But seriously, your leg is pouring blood, need some help?”_

 

_“Normally I would say no…. but today I forgot my pouch-”_

 

_Resting his hand on Eddie’s leg as he crouched, Richie smugly interrupted, “Fanny pack. It’s a fanny pack. Say the full thin-”_

 

_“God damnit Richi-”_

 

_“Say fanny pack, Eds. SAY I-”_

 

_“NO,” Eddie exclaimed, raising his voice through escalating laughter between both of them._

 

_“SAY IT EDWARD. SAY FANNY PA-”_

 

_“I FORGOT MY FANNY PACK, OK! HAPPY?”_

 

_“Very,” Richie gallantly concluded, having won._

 

_“Dick.”_

 

_With a crisp wink he jested, “My name’s Richard sweet stuff, what’d ya expect,”_

 

_“And, I’m pleased to inform you Mr. Kaspbrak, that you’re not the only one to carry around supplies with ya. I too have,” Richie failed to finish his sentence as he retrieved a travel sized medical kit from one of the buttoned pockets of his cargo shorts. In it contained antiseptic wipes, a packet of petroleum jelly, a sealed needle and some string, gauze, and a few bandaids; the ultimate survival essentials if you needed them._

 

_“I gotta say, I’m impressed,” Eddie revelled as Richie cleaned up his knee, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth as he did so. With a bandaid and some vaseline, the wound was tenderly cared for and protected, and all thanks to Richie._

 

_“Just be lucky I didn’t have to sew that big boy up.”_

 

_Both being on the floor, Richie reached out his hands but with them crossed over each other, gesturing for Eddie to take them so that they could use their collective weights to stand up at the same time. Eddie took them without question._

 

_Carding a hand through his dark curls, Richie asked, “I don’t know what you were up to, but would you want to hang with me? I was just doing some reading,” gesturing to the hammock._

 

_“Yeah why not I got nothing better to do, whatcha reading?”_

 

_Richie gulped louder than anticipated, boy he needed some water, and lied, “Just some reports I could use for support in my paper,” swooping the poetry book into his arms to conceal it, and plopped back down into the hammock._

 

_Using his gangly legs as a speculum, he spread them to make room for Eddie to sit across from him in the hammock. Eddie took the invitation and slinked into the hammock. To his surprise, it was extremely comfortable._

 

_Looming a curious gaze at the book in Richie’s grasp, Eddie placed his arms behind his head and sarcastically commented, “Science reports, huh?”_

 

_The position Eddie had his arms in accentuated the toned muscle of his biceps, and Richie had to keep himself disciplined from innately gawking at them, “Yowza, looks like you’ve found me out.”_

 

_“There’s no shame in liking poetry, Richie. I like it too, heck, I write songs.”_

 

_“Oh?” Richie quirked an eyebrow, interested._

 

_“Every so often. I used to sing them to my mom when I was younger y’know. As annoying as she was, watching her smile and listen to my garbage also made me happy. Yeah, they were never any good, but I’ve gotten better at it, I think anyway. If you read a lot of poetry you must write too, huh.”_

 

_Richie shyly shrugged his shoulders and fiddled with the rings on his fingers before admitting, “Yeah I write some of my own…. sometimes. But, I’ve never really shared them.”_

 

_“I bet they’re great, Richie. You’re brilliant, how bad could they be?”_

 

_“I don’t know-, wait a minute did you just say I was brilliant?” Richie cockily pointed out, but with a furious blush heating his cheeks._

 

_“Yeah I did, don’t make me repeat it twice or I’ll deny it.”_

 

_“Note taken,” he delightfully riposted with a velvet smoothness._

 

_They stared out at the river from the hammock with minutes of comfortable silence passing. Relaxing sounds of birds crooning, palms rustling, and water circulating undulated their senses. Their legs brushed up against one another’s, adjusting with the light sway of the swing and combined body weights._

 

_Richie hesitantly looked to Eddie, contemplatively pausing, then invited while not making eye contact, “I’d be willing to share one with you, if uh, you’d ever be interested.”_

 

_“I’d love to hear one sometime,” Eddie softly smiled. If Richie had never shared his poetry with anyone before, Eddie was secretly ecstatic that he was chosen. Hopefully his excitement wasn’t too obvious._

 

_“Really?” Richie croaked with mild surprise, adjusting his glasses._

 

_Eddie sincerely confirmed, “Really.”_

 

_Stretching open his mouth, Eddie released a silent yawn after politely covering it with his hand. Peeling the camera strap over his head and placing it in his lap, he looked at Richie with contently heavy eyelids._

 

_“When I walked over here, you were mumbling to yourself.”_

 

_“You caught me mid poem.”_

 

_“Then don’t let me stop you from finishing it, please continue,” Eddie sleepily smirked. Laying his head back and shifting his body down to be snuggly rested next to Richie’s from the opposite end, he closed his eyes._

 

_Richie undeniably thought Eddie was beautiful. Not in the way he thought a woman was beautiful, that was completely different. A woman’s lure and a man’s lure couldn’t be compared in his head, and frankly, it would have been difficult for him to put into words if he ever had to. But Eddie was exquisite, beautiful, and in that special sense some men were to him. The way his eyelashes curled when his eyes closed, chest inflated up and deflated down when he peacefully rested, the chestnut waves resting on his forehead, the buzz felt between touches as their legs shifted. All of it was beautiful, and it was Eddie’s unique beautiful._

 

_Picking the book up from his lap, Richie opened it to the page he had been on and resumed reading. He thought about keeping quiet, reading to himself, but something compelled him to continue reading aloud with Eddie’s encouragement._

 

_“I stand amid the roar_

_Of a surf-tormented shore,_

_And I hold within my hand_

_Grains of the golden sand —_

_How few! Yet how they creep_

_Through my fingers to the deep,_

_While I weep — while I weep!_

_O God! Can I not grasp_

_Them with a tighter clasp?_

_O God! Can I not save_

_One from the pitiless wave?_

_Is all that we see or seem_

_But a dream within a dream?”_

 

_With eyes still closed, Eddie gingerly smiled halfway through the second stanza of the poem. Maybe, because he liked the poem. Maybe, because he liked Richie reading this poem to him._

 

_The Ides of March this year wasn’t all that bad. Past years had had it much, much worse._

 

* * *

 

[Saturday, March 31, 2018] 

 

***SPLASH***

 

Eddie jerked forward, death-gripping the metal post mounted into the cliff above the river and hung his body over, “ _RICHIE_!”

 

_I just met you, I just began to know you, I just began to love you. Yes, love you. I haven’t told you, but I know I love you._

 

_Please don’t leave me like this._

 

_There’s so much more you need to know, to learn, to live. With me, or without me._

 

_Please live._

 

Kidnapped into an indigo flame and consumed by redwater, Richie was ingested into the pandemonium. The last thing Eddie saw were his eyes, those vividly acute sapphire spheres staring into him as they were imbibed into treacherous billows. He’d never seen eyes so frightened.

 

Eddie’s body froze, he was a phantomed icicle of a human form. But he was powerfully conditioned, tears didn’t fall, there were too many raindrops detailing his skin to make a difference if they had.

 

The bridge was gone, Richie was washed away, and he was alone in deafening silence despite the roars of nature encompassing him. The only sound he heard was the hammering of his heartbeat, drowning out every other sound and echoing across the jungle. He scanned his eyes over the rapids, and yet there were no signs of struggling limbs, or even bubbles of air hurdling to the water’s surface. Richie was gone. Possibly dead.

 

“ _RICHIE_!” He exclaimed once more in hopes a certain raspy voice would sarcastically return his call with an ill placed pun. But none did, and none would.

 

_I’m sorry…. I’m so sorry, Richie._

 

With one last glance at the river for traces of his boyfriend, Eddie ran back into the thundering darkness to be absorbed by vines. He willingly let the droplets moisten his face, his chest, the arms dangling by his sides with defeated reason, meanwhile tilting his head back to plead disparaged clemency. His lips pinched, bleeding between his teeth as he bit down on them, mourning a life he wasn’t even sure was lost.

 

A feather remained behind his ear, a token given out of love that whistled with the wind. Eddie stopped and carefully pulled the harpy’s feather from where it had been placed and into his fanny pack. Stroking along the quill, his lips quivered before zipping it tight for safekeeping.

 

_It’s a good luck charm. Please let it be good luck, we’ll need it._

 

He remembered the tips Richie had taught him about field research and how they used flags to get back to where they needed to be. Specifically blue flags. If he hadn’t been an active listener, perhaps he would’ve followed the green flags, or the pink flags, sending him to a destination miles away from where he needed to be.

 

Eddie chased after those blue flags with his flashlight for a mile back to the research station as if his life depended on it, taking him about forty-five minutes to battle through the mud and varying topography. A radiating ferality washed over his eyes as he walked with a hauntingly calm step into the dining hall. A haggard, vibrating, and very much alone Eddie.

 

Everyone immediately turned their attention to him. With an agape mouth, Eddie spoke no words, but stood blankly until someone approached him with comforting arms— Beverly.

 

She hustled over to him, placing firm hands on his shoulders, “Eddie? _Eddie_ _breathe_ , what’s wrong, talk to me.”

 

“Richie, Bev. It’s Richie. He fell _,_ ” Eddie spoke just above a whisper, with the first sign of tears making a debut. Saying those words aloud etched the reality into stone.

 

“Fell where?”

 

“The bridge, _it broke_ ,” he whimpered aloud, the last syllables being silent.

 

Dropping her hands, she grew increasingly worried, “What bridge Eddie, you need to be clear with me.”

 

“Richie fell in the river, he’s still out there, and I…. I couldn’t find him.”

 

Mike spoke up from the table where himself, Bill, and Stan still sat, “Is everything okay?”

 

Beverly jutted her head around with a dominant darkness in her eyes, “Mike, go get your phone. I’m going to need you to call search and rescue.”

 

“ _What_?” Stan piped, his features becoming deathly stoic. The clench of his jaw had the strength to shatter all of his perfectly straightened teeth.

 

“Richie is in that _damn_ river, now get on your phone, AND CALL SEARCH AND FUCKING RESCUE MICHAEL!” Beverly ordered at Mike with a might opposite to the gentle grip she held Eddie with. Leaping from his chair, Mike sprinted up to his cabin to make the call. Under the table Bill reached for Stan’s hand, squeezing it tightly and rubbing circles with his thumb. It was the only thing he could do.

 

Beverly returned her gaze to Eddie, “Come with me to my tent, you’re going to tell me everything. The sun’s down and we can’t go looking for him now-”

 

“But what if he’s-”

 

“Eddie _no_ , we’re going back to my tent while Mike makes that call. Follow me. _Now_.”

 

They trudged through the pouring rain to Beverly’s tent, one of the farthest tents from the lodge, collapsing on her bed once inside. She gave Eddie a dry shirt to wear, he stripped off his pants and wrung out the excess water, then hopped back on the bed with a concerning numbness. He looked disheveled, exhausted, and in incredible need of something soothing for an interim period where he could do absolutely nothing but dwell. Think.

 

Reaching into her mini fridge, Bev pulled out two six packs of beers and handed one to Eddie. As much as Eddie needed this boozy pacifier, so did she at the time being. All healthy coping mechanisms were overlooked, with the most convenient and one Beverly knew best, being the one chosen.  

 

They drank in silence. The rain pounded on the outside of the tent, creating a mocking chorus for them to assimilate. Beverly sat pressed next to Eddie on the edge of her bed, and they threw back beers until Eddie was willing to talk. When he did, it was with an unexpected, flaming rage.

 

Shooting up from his seat, Eddie burned a heated rut into the floor, “He’s _gone_. He’s gone, _he’s gone_ , he’s gon-”

 

“Everything is going to be ok-”

 

“But it’s NOT.”

 

“Eddie you need to calm down, _please_. Richie will get through this, we’ll find hi-”

 

“No Bev, _no_ , you don’t understand, this is my fucking fault! I-I was supposed….. I was supposed to go _first_.” Eddie emphatically clamored without giving any context, vehemently moving around the room. An inconsolable, severely tipsy Eddie was a defiantly impossible human to reason with, especially when his conscience was ridden with unreasonable guilt. He was a man who had always been burdened by guilt, and for conjurings that weren’t even his fault: the death of his father, being a bad son, being gay, turning away his mother so often, enjoying things he ‘shouldn’t’, _existing_. With age this guilt had diminished, but there were times scars from his past ripped back open to expose insecurities he thought had been permanently buried. However, we live the casualty that nothing is permanent.

 

Change was, is, and always will be an indomitably natural occurrence. Even though we as humans may hate change at times, its unexpected presence has the potential to bring blessings. We just need to be pushed into it—physically, mentally or metaphorically— to find out.

 

She huffed, following his pace and attempted to grasp his arm, “We’ll go looking first thing in the mornin-”

 

He swatted her arm down, “But what if he dies before then Bev, _huh_? What do we do then? When he’s _dead_? What if…. What if my boyfriend is already dead?” Eddie shouted at her still inconsistently pacing, weaving his hands through his hair and down the front of his face.

 

“ _Boyfriend_?” Bev squeaked in surprise. Richie may not have been here now, but she planned on giving him the biggest slap on the back and sloppiest kiss on the cheek when she saw him next. In her head, she told herself that she would positively see him again; be able to hug him, shine her endearingly crooked smile at him, tease him again. Thinking that hopeful actuality into existence was her second string of coping.

 

_Richie fucking asked him, he really did it. I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. I’m so fucking proud of him. Idiot. Total idiot. Gunna kiss him, gunna smack him._

 

“Don’t you _see_? See it from my perspective…. that? _That should’ve been me_.”

 

Eddie had become so erratic his emotions melted into a deranged fury, and not at anybody else besides himself and the taunting universe above, indulging in an outlet he hadn’t turned to since his youth: _punching shit._ Clenching his fist so tight that his dulled nails dug into his palms and drew blood, he turned sharply on his heels and impulsively socked a beam of Bev’s hut— the hut that was constructed tactfully with a skeleton made of cement beams.

 

***CRACK***

 

“FUCKING SHIT!” Eddie yelped as he slumped to the floor, huddling over the front of his body.

 

Beverly rushed to Eddie’s side, leaning over his body to glance at the damage. Her gaze sympathetically softened analyzing Eddie’s physical state, “ _Jesus Christ_.” She couldn’t become angry with him, not now, so she continued to attempt rationalizing.  

 

Slouching, she habitually tapped her fingertips on her thigh, the other hand soothing Eddie on his back. The motion was rhythmic, commanding, but impatient. She lifted her head with a determined confidence and mindful smile, “Richie may talk a load of shit, but that jackass is a survivor, I look up to him for that reason. And if anybody could survive this, I believe Richie can,”

 

“We’ll find him, I know we will, I _feel_ it. But first we need to fix your hand, because love, that bitch is broken.”

 

* * *

 

***SPASH***

 

A pair of horrified hazel eyes was his last visual. An inaudible shriek expelled from those hazel eyes, greedily overpowered by the enveloping rush of white noised rapids. The strike, the fall, the eyes, the crash of water; all became a static blur.

 

_This is it, I’m going to die._

 

_I’m dying._

 

_I’m dying, I can’t breathe, I can’t see, I’m dying._

 

_It wasn’t me who was going to kill you, but me, who ended up getting myself killed._

 

_At least it was me, and not you._

 

His body tumbled with the violent current, bashing into the boulders below and tossed to the top every few circulations to resurface. When his battered head managed to breach above water, he desperately gulped for air before being sucked back down into the cloudy abyss. The water mangled his body in every possible plane of direction: up and down, left to right, diagonal, upside down, backwards. He was at the will of the storm surging river and there was jack _shit_ he could do about it.

 

One of the last times his head circled above water, he recognized an obvious fork in the river. He got a glimpse before the current yanked his ankles underwater once more and shoved him to the left curve, the force of the water giving him whiplash and undeserving blacked-out indictment.

 

But, the water swallowed him to the left; to the north.

 

Loose debris crashed into him, whether they were logs, floating rocks, shredded foliage, pieces of housing, carcasses, the Loch Ness Monster slinking by, everything felt of dissimilar size and medium and he was just another substituent of the chaos. When he was shoved to the top of another wave, Richie shot open his eyes, flailed to stay afloat as long as he could, and grabbed on to a fallen cork tree within reach. It may not have been a substantial raft, but the dead tree allowed for him to get air more often than his previous tactic of doing absolutely nothing.

 

His senses began to suffer due to the lack of oxygen to his brain. With his arms welded around the tree, he struggled to remain conscious. He couldn’t see, body hurt like hell, had no idea how far his body had been dragged, and lungs were waterlogged enough he would be coughing up river sewage for days. As his eyes fluttered open and shut with the twinkling of stars, his body abruptly stopped moving forward.

 

And so did the tree he held on to.

 

The top branches had tangled in a grove of overhanging bushes, causing it to temporarily remain put and resist the flow of the river— for this minute in time. Richie didn’t dare loosen his grip on the tree, but knew this may be his only opportunity to escape the dangerous surge. He rolled his body weight on top of the log to be completely out of the water, harshly straddling it, then carefully inched his way across the tree to be further from the center of the river and closer to the water’s edge, speeding up whenever he felt the tree being aggressively tugged at by the waves.

 

The bushes mounted on the sides of the river were just in reach, so close, so incredibly close. They weren’t close enough to lean over and grab a hold of, but perhaps with a jump, one could grab a handful of leaves and be able to pull themselves to shore. It wasn’t a far jump, but those bushes appeared farther and farther away the longer Richie stared at them. It was a case of horizontal vertigo for his blind eyes.

 

Richie had no choice. He had to take the leap.

 

If he stayed on the log until the storm ended, it was a guaranteed death wish. Lights out. _Dead_. And yet with one missed step he was washed back into battling the river, and honestly, he didn’t know if he’d be able to survive a second round. _Dead_. With hoarse breath, Richie shakily coughed out, “You can do it Rich… _c’mon…_ .. get up….. _please…_.no drowning today.”

 

He lifted his body to crouch on the top of the tree, wobbly as all fuck, hunched over with palms open and flat on the wood in front of him for balance. Keeping his breath steady was vital for him to not panic, maintain concentration, and survive.

 

_In, and out, in and out, in, out, 1 2 3, 4 5 6, 7 8 9, 8 7 6, 5 4 3, 2 1 0._

 

It was now or never.

 

Richie forcefully pounced, kicking the tree away from him to be consumed by the river once more. Air bound for a millisecond, few seconds, an hour, time skewed together into a single moment that couldn’t be measured; out of doubt, out of fear, out of imperception. But that blippet became obsolete as he crashed into the water with a fist clenching on to a thorny branch. The thorns punctured deep into his palm creating hooked lacerations, but he weakly smiled for his victory. This thorny branch brought more happiness than it did pain.

 

“ _Gotcha_ ,” he whispered, clinging to the swaying bushes with the current. Expending what he thought was last of his energy, he scrambled through the rest of the branches to wench himself over a ledge and on to the mud bank. He crawled farther away from the river until he was guarded by trees and fell limp against the nearest trunk. After a few deep breaths and a wipe of the eyes, all he felt compelled to do?

 

Maniacally laugh. These laughs of psychotic hysterics lasted longer than they should have for any man in his position. A demonized hyena possessed his vocal chords, cackling into the rain filled night.

 

Water didn’t win this time, Richie Trashmouth Tozier did. And that to him was the funniest fucking thing over the span of three unparalleled universes right then and there. No God saved him, he did, and that in itself was empowering.

 

_I’m not dead. I’M NOT DEAD. Holy shit, I’m alive…. I’m still here._

 

As his fit of lawless chortles came to a close, the settled exhaustion punched him with the force of a freighter, seducing him to doze off into a deep sleep. He could have passed out against that very tree, relieved as a newly sprouted flower with dewy morning sunlight. The only thing stopping him from losing consciousness was a searing heat burning into the front of his right shin. Looking down at his leg, his eyes bulged out of his head and he cursed, “Oh my _fucking_ God.”

 

Even without his glasses and sunlight, he could easily see the mess of red running down his leg. The new river soaked his shoe, his scrunched up sock, stained his pale skin, and pooled within his lanced fault line. There was no pain, not yet, just a blurred tableau of glistening red and white.

 

Extending from a few inches below his knee to passed his navicular atop his foot, a bloodied gash petalled open. In some spots the gash edged so deep bone was exposed. His leg was drenched in a thick crimson, continuously pouring with the same fervor as the rain.

 

Richie lowered a weary hand down to his leg, unsure of the sensation that would be felt when the receptors on his hand made contact with the open wound. A touch to the flayed outer skin was all it took for Richie to agonizingly wince and throw his head back through gritted teeth. As he threw his head back, a mass crepitated between his skull and the tree.   

 

 _Um…. what the fuck was that_ , he thought. His delirium told him his head had split open for a tremor.

 

Ignoring the pained state of shock his leg dropped into, he massaged fingers through the back of his matted curls to feel thick plastic frames, “What in the-, _FUCK YES_!”

 

A sobered, maniacal laughter resumed following his series of fortunes hoisted within this personal catastrophe. His glasses had tangled into his mess of hair and was dreaded in. Painfully yanking them out and tearing off some of his hair, he put his unscathed glasses back on his face. Seeing his leg with clear eyes was horrifyingly triggering.

 

Fuck, he wanted a cigarette.

 

And cigarettes were a funny thing. Alcohol was too, but that was another animal. Cigarettes chained you as its slave, a potential lifetime beast of burden for a fucking chemical. Cigarettes, yes cigarettes, were different than that intoxicating poison. They gave you a comforting pacifier to return to when situations turned stressful, _like_ , when your leg was shredded open. Yeah they tasted like shit, but a lot of things tasted like shit and without the results. Leafy green kale tastes like shit and gifts you replenishments of iron. Well, nicotine puffs off a cigarette lends that temporary, but necessary, buzz of relaxation for the cost of their shitty taste. With a roll between your index finger and thumb to hear a pop, that shitty taste could even transform into mint undertones. Only for a little though— then you were left by yourself. Alone with your cigarette butt, your putrid fingers, your jittering lungs, your buddy’s ‘borrowed’ lighter, and your deflated ego.  

 

_Worth it._

 

Patting down his sides, Richie salvaged for what remained in his pockets. He was pleased to have his glasses on his face, couldn’t find his chapstick, no key ring to the lab, no cellphone, no cigarettes or lighter, no pencil, and no notebook. However, the travel sized medical kit he carried around was still secured in his buttoned pocket. The supplies were drenched, but what he needed most was intact and ready to be ably used.

 

_Little victories bucko, little victories. Count ‘em while they’re there._

 

He looked down at his leg once more, cringed away to look at the sky, cursed profusely, then heavily sighed at what he knew he had to do. The gash ran too deep to be able to heal on its own and he had no idea how long he’d be stranded in this maze of the jungle by himself. What he did know is that if the gash wasn’t closed, the wound would fester, swell, then get fatally infected. It could kill him. _Dead_. Stitching it up was the only option.

 

_I guess today is the day, boys. Carpe fuckin’ diem._

 

Death was a common detriment, it happened all the time: three minutes from now, this moment, ten minutes ago, three billion years into the future; it’s constant and unforgiving. Death will happen to those expecting its arrival or without any form of warning. But, it comes.

 

There were occasions in the past he had helped prepare dead specimens for the lab: filling an organism’s insides with cotton sheathed borax, snapping a shoulder bone out of place, replacing globular eyes with glass ones, sharpening talons, sewing up the center of a belly, propping legs against wooden spokes with floral wire and mounting them on a glued wooden platform. That was part of being a scientist. You often did what you needed to do in order to learn about the world, having to minorly separate yourself from gruesome tasks at hand for future benefit.

 

But, he had never stitched a _living_ being. And doing that to yourself?

 

He would be able to feel every gliding _sting_. Every _puncture_. Every _tug_. Every _knot_. Dissociating from that would take a sociopathic talent that Richie simply didn’t have. But, he could try.

 

Slowly propping himself up to stand using the tree as a brace, Richie hobbled over to a calm bay of the river flow. A cupped hand administered water into the bleeding gash to wash away any debris and loose particles, having to be absolutely sure that there was nothing in it before he stitched it closed. Even using a finger to parade inside the wound, Richie flicked unwanted material out despite the pain. He purposely sat himself in the open grass so he was far enough from the risk of being pulled back into the river, as well as out of shadowed canopy. If anything, falling droplets of rain would cleanse most of his wounds from the harm endured. They could wash away the impurities, the hurt, pain, even though they were the ones causing the initial malevolent treachery. He breathlessly sprawled there in the open, purposely wanting whomever asshole billions believed to be in the sky to forcefully watch him suffer under the rarity of this second Blue Moon.

 

And succeed.  

 

There were two Blues eclipsing this year, this being the second and final. Thirteen moons in total were due to rise full and bright, instead of the characteristic twelve, this year harboring a count intrinsically marked for death. This particular moon embraced the misfortune, unlucky as ever.

 

Richie grinned wide as he extended his middle finger over his head directly at the Blue Moon.

 

_Mhm sure, bring it on Mista God._

 

Richie may not have been a medical doctor, but through years of dedicated studies he regardlessly snatched up the title of being a doctor in his field, and was aware of protocols that would help for stitching himself up. He used his teeth (specifically his snaggled canines that were resourcefully fang-like and uniquely sharp) to tear off both sleeves of his shirt. The strips were tied together at one end and wrapped tightly above his knee at the other ends to strategically cut off his circulation. Losing the least amount of blood possible, as well as keeping infection out, that the goal. Next, he shook off his right shoe and shed the sock on that same foot without bending his leg. He wrung as much water out of the sock physically possible and flattened it in his lap, fucking hating, _loathing_ , what he planned on using it for. Debris removed, antiseptic wipes swathed over his shin’s entire length, gauze at the ready, all that was left to do was sew.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Peeling the plastic back over the fresh needle, Richie pinched it out of its case. It sparkled his warped reflection back at him as he turned the tool in his hand for evaluation. No marks, no scratches, it had never been used or touched. He briefly imagined using the needle to gouge out both of his eyes, _pop pop_ , for without eyes, sacrificing the opportunity to give himself stitches would be much easier.

 

Threading the surgical string through the top hole, he knotted it. Confident hands and a newly steadied set of eyes assured Richie to squeeze the petalled gash shut between whimpered grunts. Copious amounts of blood oozed out, enough to make anyone squeamish to gore pass out. The rain quickly washed away the excess to leave only pale skin riddled with neighboring deep scratches. He shoved the sock that had been on his lap uncompromisingly into his mouth, and bit down. Hard.

 

Acidic tears stained his cheeks as he sanded down the front edges of his teeth against the fibers of the sock. The needle smoothly wove in and out, _pop pop,_ carefully closing the exposed bone of his shin with a calculated relentlessness. The unpracticed flow of his hand brought consequential pain. With the gash welded shut, Richie wrapped it with gauze and army crawled across the grass to the same tree he initially had after freeing himself from the river.

 

Siren songs of serendipitous sleep whispered to him. They were forgivingly petulant, sweetly soothing, cooing almost, and in succinct rhythm with the slowing droplets of rain splashing in puddles of mud surrounding him. The temptresses in his head may have well been the water sprinkling from the heavens. He had finished what needed to be done for now, and could sleep. Not soundly, but surely sleep.

 

Twenty seven stitches later.

 

* * *

 

[Sunday, April 1, 2018] 

 

He had been in a cast before.

 

And absolutely _hated_ being in a cast. They were restricting, itchy, and fucking ugly. Yeah, you could get them in different colored wraps, signed, stickered, but they were ugly in every design. They announced to the world that you had been weak, vulnerable, and Eddie hated that. Even more than their ugly aesthetic.

 

Three shattered knuckles, one broken thumb, bruised fingertips, and a fractured right wrist was the documented damage. It had been pooling in purple hematomas by the time Bev and Eddie ran to his medhut the previous night. As much as breaking his hand had been excruciating…. he had fashioned a little smile. It was the most peculiar smile of all smiles that Eddie had ever comprised— he was still able to feel the luxury of pain, he was breathing, he was _alive_ , and the physical mutilation he endured was the biggest distraction he could’ve given himself in a night swimming with horrors. The perfected individual copying mechanism, per se.

 

Traces of his ephemeral smile vanished when he needed three different shots of numbing anesthetic in his hand. The sting made his hand twitch, enabling him to feel the splinted shift of bones underneath his skin. The pain never ceased to come.

 

Ben had done an expertly job setting and casting Eddie’s hand, but still he was in that dreaded cast, and would be stuck in that cast for the remainder of his trip. It was a reminder of a night he wanted to forget, and attached to his body as a replacement for someone who shouldn’t be missing. Looking down at the cast meant seeing Richie’s frightened eyes each time.

 

Every. Single. Time.

 

It was the screaming meemie he wouldn’t be able to wake up from until Richie was found. Just a continuation of a nightmare cocktail, seasoned in rainwater and spiked with lightning. The cast would inevitably heal his hand; wrapped tightness keeping bone where it should be. If only there was a cast that could be fit to keep the fibers of his heart from flaying.

 

Eddie shot his head up from one of the cots set up in Ben’s tent, groggy from the high prescription pain medication and anti-inflammatories he had been given. All was blurry: the walls, his upturned hands, yesterday, today, his insides, his brain. Drugged confusion lingered as he awoke, where stunted recollections resurfaced to trap him in this aloof dream. He felt a body weigh down his cot behind him and turned over to squint fuzzy vision at a woman with fiery curls.

 

“Morning Eddie, how ya feeling?” Bev anxiously greeted.

 

He grimaced through an awkward stretch and a nod, “I’m okay. Not good, not bad. But, okay.”

 

She stood up and combed through her hair with severely chewed down fingernails, “Good, good. Sorry I had to wake you like this, but Mike is ready with a panga. You and him are going down the river while the rest of us go on foot. Search and rescue have been out in a helicopter since the sun came up, but… we all want to help. All of us.”

 

The blood pumping in his hand seized into the sensation of curdling. He had hoped that by the time he woke up there would have been some word of Richie’s whereabouts, but the confirmation that he was still very much missing made his veins dilate harder. The spreading uncertainty made the curdling virus from his hand infect his stomach, lungs, heart, then the rest of his extremities. Fighting the desire to upchuck was harsh, so he pulled out his inhaler to shove into his mouth and press down. The familiar adrenaline rush brought his head to a more clear platform.

 

_Breathe Eddie._

 

Cupping Eddie’s cheek with a loving hand, Beverly smiled, “Let’s go find him. Bring him home.” She crisply winked, emulating Richie to an extent Eddie had never noticed before. They both had that cunningly mischievous twinkle in their eye. With Richie gone, he could really see how alike they were. Eddie thought that in another life if he had been any kind of straight, he would have fallen in love with Beverly too.

 

Ben gave Eddie a bottle of Vicodin to keep in his fanny pack in case the pain was too overwhelming for his broken hand, but recommended not taking any unless necessary— it was bad for the liver if abused. Eddie highly admired Ben’s knowledge about medicine. Caught in a hazed limbo of waking up, he still managed to question Ben senselessly about medical supplies just out of sheer curiosity (“What’s this, Ben _hey_ Ben, this metal thing do? Does that syringe, _yeah that one_ , only administer antibiotic? How long does bottled morphine last? Long time, yeah?”). His sentences came out jumbled and staggered, but still poignant, still cognitive enough for conversation. And to Ben, quite entertaining.

 

Fifteen minutes passed before Eddie and Ben met with the others by the boat docks. Mike efficiently rummaged around the panga to secure ropes and put gas in the engine, while Beverly glued herself to the shoreline talking with Bill and Stan. They were holding hands.

 

Bill looked comfortingly collected. Stan on the other hand looked uncharacteristically disheveled, a disturbed pinging lightly pounding behind his corneas. His eyes unrhythmically fixed on pieces of the environment in a thinking trance; his mind and thoughts deeply separated from where his body stood.

 

 _Knew it_ , Eddie smirked looking at their clasped hands. Through his own grief, he was still able to smile for others finding their own happiness.

 

“Eddie! Hop on, we’ve got a ways to go my friend,” Mike hollered.

 

“Comin’ Mikey.” With waves of the hands, including one blown kiss, the two groups set out on their journeys to find Richie.

 

Eddie sat in the passenger seat opposite Mike, glancing at him every so often, then getting stuck at looking at the river ahead. The tranquil swells of water were deceivingly hypnotizing; beautiful even. A lot of beautiful things were unfortunately.  

 

_Pretty. Why couldn't you always be like this._

 

After minutes of silence and skimming across calm water, Eddie gulped hesitantly, “You’ve been here the longest Mike, you know how storms like these go. What-, what are the chances of finding him?” He wanted a truthful answer, but also hoped he’d be told what he wanted to hear; that Richie would be fine.

 

Mike pinched his lips without making eye contact. He wanted to comfort Eddie, bring him peace of a guaranteed return, but he also wanted to be realistic. That was just who Mike was— zero bullshit, all fact.

 

“Ed, you play cards?”

 

Scrunching his eyebrows, Eddie responded, “Not all the time, but what does this have to do with-”

 

“So you know about the ace of spades then.”

 

“Yeah, uhm, it’s the only versatile card,” Eddie looked at him curiously, clutching his cast closer to his body.

 

Mike clenched his jaw, “Exactly. For anyone caught in a tide like that, yeah, I think of them as that card. They can be the luckiest of that deck, winnin’ the game with their high number, serving as a stable base. They can also be the unluckiest, playing as a damn one instead of an eleven. It depends on what game ya playing. Long story short Eddie, I hope the game he was unwillingly thrown into was Solitaire and not Blackjack.”

 

Eddie understood. He always did.

 

Their boat travelled down the Amazon with ease, both Mike and Eddie looking into its depths and around the edges for any signs of Richie. None so far. Not a shoe, a piece of clothing, a notebook, nor a body.

 

Everything was serene as it should be, with flocks of parrots cawing and light showers passing under painted sky. The serenity broke when the panga approached a fork in the river; one stream heading south and one curving north. Before approaching the fork, Mike knowledgeably switched off the motor. Eddie noticed that with the hand he had turned the motor off with, Mike crossed a set of his fingers, and looked hopefully towards the left side of the river— the north side.

 

Eddie gripped the side of the boat, “Mike?”

 

Mike analyzed every swish of current with grave concern, ignoring Eddie’s acknowledgment. The panga spun in whirled circles with the flow of the river and veered to the south side of the fork.

 

“Fuck,” Mike defeatedly breathed, his head dropping in between his spread legs. His thumbs massaged his temples as the boat continued to be dragged down the right bend.  

 

“ _What_? What’s wrong?” Eddie asked, a panic rising in his chest.

 

Mike shook his head for clarity and restarted the motor after taking a deep breath. Above the sound of the motor, falling water could be heard, and not the same falling of water that dropped from the heavens. Sitting upright in full wits, Mike sullenly lifted eyes at Eddie that held a sage’s wisdom, “I’ll have to show you.”

 

“Just tell me-”

 

“I need you to _see_. Not hear, and not take my word, even though I know you would. See with your own eyes to believe me of what I think.”

 

Mike parked the panga, tying it to a tree and stepped out heavy feet. They walked for twenty feet, thirty feet, maybe one hundred feet along the river, until the rushing of water was so overwhelming your thoughts had no space to be heard between both eardrums.

 

Only water.

 

Mike reached for Eddie’s hand and ensured, “I need you to see for yourself.”

 

Pushing out of from shading ferns, they both stood closely on the edge of a rocky cliff, Mike holding onto Eddie’s left uncasted hand with a firm grip.

 

He was glad Mike reached for him beforehand, and would forever be grateful for that. The sight of the tumbling falls made him squeeze a cathartic venom into Mike’s hand rather than internalizing that energy, but Mike was a supportive catalyst, absorbing Eddie’s poison without repercussion. He squeezed so tight, so _fucking_ tight, that he was sure that if he didn’t have anything to hold onto he might have passed out; passed out and toppled down that cliff, hundreds of leagues below, and smashed his skull open into unrecognizable smithereens on the stalagmites protruding out of the shallow pools.

 

_Just like Richie._

 

But my was it beautiful.

 

So many dangerous entities were, their cursed beauty divine and untrusting. The sky melted into different hues of fire: reds, oranges, yellows, pinks. The clouds, puffy as converged smoke rings like in the city. The water pumped furiously and healthy as blood through arteries should.

 

Everything looked perfect, and so beautiful.  

 

Eddie’s knees buckled and he sat down at the cliff’s edge, still holding Mike’s hand. Mike comfortingly sat next to him, and if anything, he did so to make sure Eddie wouldn’t do anything reckless. His hand broke by his own demise, who knows what else he would have the raged courage to do in an early stage of mourning. _Jump off?_

 

“Do you understand?” Mike sadly implied, still holding his hand.

 

Eddie’s throat dried mercilessly as he whimpered out, “Are you sure? _Absolutely_ sure? What about the fork? He could’ve gone the other way…. _right_?”

 

“Not after a storm like that, the dominant flow of the river rarely lies. Especially the day after. I’m- I’m sorry.”

 

“What are the chances of him… _uhm…_ .going over and…. _living_?” Eddie knew he didn’t want the answer, but couldn’t stop his mouth from asking. His mouth was moving faster than he could think, and he knew Mike didn’t have all the answers, no one did, but a glimpse of hope from Mike’s mouth would have given him that percentage of hope needed to stay sane.

 

“It’s a one in a million chance, I’m afraid,” Mike weakly informed. His chocolate skin was significantly more pale and ghostlike than moments before; and apologetic.

 

“ _One…_?”

 

“I’m sorry, Ed. I’m so sorry,” and Mike released his hand to pull Eddie into a suffocating hug alongside the cliff. Mike held him close, placing a worn hand on the back of Eddie’s head to host refuge on his shoulder away from the sight of the falls, and squeezed. He squeezed tight enough to keep Eddie’s breathing at a normal pace. Eddie’s eyes may have closed, but Mike’s remained vibrantly open.

 

Life is so fragile, so miniscule on the infinite timeline, and so uncountably unappreciated.

 

The moments we have are short lived; the horrible ones, the good ones, and everything in between. The intangibilities we would sell if we had the chance to experience one last frivolous moment with another snatched by Death. A coffee date, thrift shopping, watching television in silence, even an argument— you’d certainly want _one_ more. And you never know when or whom Death may interrupt. It could be the daffodil in your garden, your neighbor, the sparrow singing outside your window each morning, your mother, your friend, your best friend, a stillborn who never had a chance to see the light of day, your sibling, a celebrity, your father, your pet, or you. Appreciation for an influx of breath is key, no matter where we are on the timeline. There’s only so many we’re gifted.

 

Eddie popped a Vicodin shortly after, and not even for his hand.

 

Mike had an arm slung around Eddie’s shoulders all the way back to the panga, being the sturdy anchor of a man he is, and soothingly rubbed the outside of his bicep. Eddie weaved his arms around Mike’s waist for comfort and followed. His nose pressed into the side of Mike’s chest and it smelled pleasant, the remnants of cinnamon and coffee beans more enjoyable than most fumes, but it didn’t smell like Richie.

 

Sandalwood and menthol smelled like Richie. And this scent was nothing close.

 

Eddie rested his head on the lower part of Mike’s shoulder in the boat all the way back to the research station. He was numb, resonating, and sat on a conflicting ball of fire that screamed this wasn’t over, but the facts he knew told a different tale. As they approached the dock of the research station, the four who had wandered on foot stood in a line at the shore waiting for their arrival: Ben at the left, Beverly, Stan, Bill at the right.

 

Their expressions were unreadable, except for Stan’s.

 

All of his features lamented, even more so after reading Eddie’s crippled body language the closer he stepped. His orderly demeanor bristled with pained inconsistency, eyes vacant like convex domes of marble on the verge of tears, and mouth ajar wanting to explain strings of suppressed words that couldn’t escape.

 

This was the face of someone who had just learned they lost their first friend, their best friend— their family.

 

Out of the group, Beverly was the one to muster enough strength to approach Eddie with her chin held high. Her head may have been leveled with the trajectory of her feet, gaze steady, but her eyes were wild with gated agony as she looked straight through him. There was a mourning solemnity behind those orbs of troubled ocean. She didn’t reach out her hands for Eddie necessarily, but she held them out towards him to present a wet notebook. On the inside, scribbled cursive read:

 

_‘If found, return to Dr. Richard Tozier’._

 

* * *

 

His eyes shot open after a mechanical tornado of wind hurdled leaf litter into the sky.

 

Lifting his head off the tree stump and slinking to the floor, Richie adjusted his eyes with the rising sun that peeked just above the horizon. Rain stained lenses still on his face, he made out a white helicopter racing down the river away from him. He forgot completely where he was for a second, why he was on the other side of the river he started on, and had to stare dumbly at the helicopter before it hit him.

 

“Oh shit, that was probably for me huh,” Richie mumbled to himself with a hollow chuckle. As his first words of the day left his mouth, pain inflicted his entire body. Every- _fucking_ -where. He thought this was probably what it felt like to pass through a switched on garbage disposal, feeling a new sympathy for scraps of food that ended up serrated by its blades.

 

The gauze wrapped around his shin had soaked with blood in the night. It was a decent amount, but this was to be expected and was not nearly as much as it would have been if he had never stitched up the gash. But honestly, he didn’t want to see what was under the wraps in broad daylight, his own mutilated appendage, but cleaning the wound and replacing the gauze was necessary. Carefully peeling away the fibers, his eyes gained in size with each loop undone.

 

He was right. The sight was even more horrific in the sunlight.

 

Without adrenaline rushing through his system, and without medication, the pain continued to settle deeper. Swift hands cleansed the stitched mess of dried blood with antiseptic wipes through gritted teeth. Small whimpers left his lips as he rebandaged it as quick as humanly possible. The quicker, the better.

 

As he slowly got to his feet, putting pressure on his leg was fucking excruciating. So painful that it made him nauseous. And not just in his stomach; if a leg could feel waves of nausea, his definitely did. Limping upstream under the shade of the canopy by his own pace, he cringed every step of the way and worked to the best of his ability to suppress thoughts of hunger and thirst.

 

_I miss Eddie. I hope he’s okay._

 

To see Eddie again, he would have to keep going; take that extra step, eat that fallen passion fruit to not starve, hold back his tears of frustration, ignore all of his pain. All of this was temporary, but dying certainly wasn’t. Walking his own bludgeoned ass back to the research station seemed to be his only bet for survival at this point.

 

He himself, and only him, was his sole lifeline.

 

Richie walked all day. The sun rose full in the sky, then started to go down again. The dangerous mixture of hunger, thirst, and unexplainable pain gave him mild hallucinations that progressed into major hallucinations as delirium became more prominent. His energy depleted close to empty as the sun set, and he plopped his body down to momentarily rest and watch the sight. For all he knew at this point, it could be the last sunset he’d ever witness. He watched the sunset thoughtfully, peacefully, wondering if his friends were watching the same view. It was entrancing, he sure hoped they were.

 _Ribbit_.

Without turning his head, he continued to watch the sun. Richie perceived the sound as a figment of his imagination taunting him, until he heard _ribbitribbit._

 

“Well hello there toad boy! Watching the sunset with me are ya?” Richie joyously greeted the toad, who sat right next to him. He was over the moon he finally had company, even if the company was a toad who couldn’t respond to him.

 

Looking at the sunset then back to the toad, Richie flashed a delusional grin, “It’s a beautiful painting. Like someone just swiped a brush over the whole sky.” The toad just watched him without hopping away or blinking. Giggling erratically into his hands, Richie continued to appease the amphibian.

 

“You mah friend, _mah good ol’ pal,_ yeah that’s who ye are, are a cool lookin’ mister. _Bufo marinus_. A cane toad. You’re a cane toad! A funny, _funny_ , dude. How’s your day?” Richie babbled to the toad in between spurted laughter. If anybody had been watching him, he would have looked utterly insane. Completely off his rocker. All his marbles were spilling on the floor and there weren’t many left in his pouch.

 

The toad croaked.

 

“I’m so glad it was good. Mine was great too, thank you very much for asking. Wonderful actually, my leg is falling off,” he dramatically spat.  

 

Getting closer to the toad and squinting, Richie’s string of nonsensical thoughts didn’t cease, “I’m going to name you Maturin. You remind me of Stephen Maturin from _Master and Commander,_ you know? A physicist toad. Perfect, a name just for you.”

 

“But Maturin, _fuck_ Maturin, I really need to get back to my friends. I miss them a lot. I have a new boyfriend, his name is Eds, well Eddie, but I call him Eds. He likes it, I know that gremlin does,” Richie sweetly smiled and nodded his head, agreeing with himself.

 

The sun set completely, and stars began to shine brightly. A light shower sprinkled the two friends.

 

“I should get going now. Pleasure talkin’ with ya chap, and maybe I’ll see ya tomorrow. Take care buddy,” he recited with a weak smile, winking at the toad as he hobbled to his feet. Richie limped all night upstream without looking back, refusing to stop. Never stopping.  

 

Not until he saw those hazel eyes again.

 

* * *

 

[Monday, April 2, 2018] 

 

Search and rescue never found him.

 

They travelled for miles down multiple forks of river, on both sides, above patches of forest, even reaching an estuary that inevitably lead to open ocean. Still no Richie, not even a trace of Richie. He had completely disappeared, the only proof he had existed being his tent and the waterlogged notebook left behind.

 

A cloud loomed over the research station. Not a lot of conversation took place and eye contact remained rare, with most staring at the ground as they walked. The meal time was met for breakfast with everyone present, but once again, no one spoke. No eye contact. Food was pushed around plates with minimal actually being consumed, appetites fictitious.

 

Eddie held Richie’s notebook in his hands at the table and opened it to a center page. Taking out the harpy’s feather from his fanny pack, he delicately placed it inside and closed the notebook to flatten it.

 

 _This feather is the worst good luck charm ever_ , he thought.

 

“Hey’uh…… _Hello?”_ A voice vibrantly, but sparingly reverberated along the bamboo walls. The rasp in the ghosted voice was heartbreaking, distant, whomever it belonged to. It was searching, and sounded like it had been doing so for far too long without answer.

 

_C’mon someone…. Anyone… Eddie. I know you’re there._

 

Everyone in the dining hall froze. Everyone fell silent. Even the staff froze.

 

“ _Eds…_ .?” The voice harped its last chord, this time with a convoluted strain and diminished strength. Eddie tumbled out of his chair quicker than anyone in the vicinity and darted off of the floor in a whirlwind shuffle towards the voice. Sprinting down the stairs and stopping at the river’s edge, he found himself in the presence of a spirit. It was a human ghost: transparently pale, shakingly frail, emaciated, battered limbs, wild hair, clothing ripped, sparingly cognitive, and surrealistically floating with feet planted, but…... _alive_.

 

The ghost flashed an expired, toothy grin at him behind horn rimmed glasses with the last strength mustered by its mortal vessel from the other side of the river. A flooding relief sparked in those dreadfully close to lifeless eyes as its cheeks widened. But soon after they rolled into the back of its skull, they collapsed to the soil with their shallow breathing corpse. _Pop pop_.  

 

Without hesitation, Eddie dove into the river fully clothed without any concern for his cast or anything in his pockets. He rapidly sculled through the murky water with an eager determination to where the ghost fell— yes, into the water he had been skeptical of, knowing there were fanged creatures lurking in its weeds. _Predators_. Even without a storm brewing the river was onerous to get across by oneself, but Eddie made swimming across that vagary look easy; even Mike was impressed, who was frantically starting up a panga.

 

Galloping out of the river, Eddie slid on his knees to the body, swiftly scooping the limp form into his arms and holding it close to his chest.

 

“ _Richie_.”

 

Eddie used a hand to support his neck, and instinctively pet his dark curls with the other. Richie’s pulse was barely there, his body cold as ice and frighteningly still. He noticed the bloodied, stitched gash on Richie’s leg that lacked any shielding gauze, making him sob. Tears fell from Eddie’s face not because of the pain he knew Richie felt piercing his own skin, but because Richie had to do it by himself. All alone.

 

Everyone has to suffer pain, all kinds of pain across different planes every day, but no one should have to do it alone.

 

“Please talk to me Rich, say something. _Please_.”

 

Richie said nothing, his diaphragm rising and falling each time with a decreased curve. Eddie frantically overlooked his shoulder in hopes he would see others coming. Both Mike and Ben were almost across the river and with visible supplies on board, but not close enough for his comfort.

 

_You’re going to die by the time they get here. NO no no NO no no no no._

 

Taking matters into his own hands, Eddie performed CPR on Richie. _One, two, three, one, two, three_. His hands pounded on his chest with interlaced palms, his lips pressed to Richie’s forcing his own air into those weak lungs, he did everything with correct procedure, but still Richie’s breathing didn’t improve. If anything, his body felt deadened to the touch.

 

“MIKE, BEN, HURRY!” Eddie yelped, still pumping Richie’s chest and now straddling his body. He took out his inhaler, shook it, whapped the side of Richie’s cheek, and shoved the inhaler into Richie’s mouth with a press.

 

Richie’s eyes wildly shot open and he breathed in a painful amount of air as if he had been brought back from the dead. It was his first breath as a revived corpse, and thanks to Eddie. Mike and Ben ran to the two with medical supplies and water. Eddie hopped off of him to lift his torso and use his own body to hold him upright.

 

“You’re alive, _you’re alive_ , I can’t believe it,” Eddie cried in whispers, holding him tight.

 

Richie reached a weak hand up to touch Eddie’s face and turned to look lovingly into his eyes, “Came back for those, ya know.”

 

Eddie rocked back and forth with Richie in his arms, cooing, “I know you did, I know.”

 

Richie poked Eddie in the eye with a delusional grin and tilt of his head, “No, _no no_ , I came for those. Had to see ‘em again.”

 

“My eyes?” Eddie laughed with tears running down his cheeks.

 

“Yeah, ‘cuz I love you Eds,” he said nonchalantly, half conscious.

 

Richie closed his tired eyes resting against Eddie’s body with a smile, as an oxygen mask was placed around his face.

 

Eddie kissed Richie’s forehead and hummed, “I never thought I’d be able hear your voice, hear one of your poems, never thought I’d be able to tell you that I-I…..I love you too, Richie.”


End file.
